


Meat Eating Orchids

by barbaricyawp



Category: Inception (2010), Mysterious Skin (2005)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Past Sexual Abuse, Sex Trafficking, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Harrassment, mysterious skins crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaricyawp/pseuds/barbaricyawp
Summary: Arthur, Eames, and Ariadne catch a predator. Arthur struggles with a past he thought he set aside.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I found this lurking in my drafts, accumulating digital dust. Does anyone still read Mysterious Skin/Inception fics anymore? Well, here's a gift for those three people.

* * *

"Meat eating orchids forgive no one just yet. / Cut myself on angel's hair and baby's breath."  
Nirvana, "Heart-Shaped Box"

* * *

 

“I don’t see why this is a bad idea.”

It’s a terrible idea, but any idea Eames pitches is terrible. Arthur rolls over onto his side so the phone is no longer smashed between pillow and face. The clock reads 3:43 AM. Arthur landed in Milan four hours ago. He could kill Eames for calling at this time and has tried before.

“Which college is it?”

“Does it matter? You’re already in.”

Arthur sighs. “Did you write the application?”

“Of course I didn’t. Ariadne did.”

Right. According to the bug Arthur planted in Eames’ Paris flat three months ago, Ariadne was temporarily moved in. They must have discussed this in a non-bugged room. (Further evidence that, as Arthur suspected, Eames knew about the bug.)

“Under what name?”

“Chester McBride.”

“That’s a terrible name.” But Arthur is already sitting up to retrieve his laptop from the bedside table. Eames and Ariadne are in Paris. He'll need tickets to Paris. “So I’m going to be a psychology major then?”

“Mhmm, transferred straight from Colby.”

“Colby. In Maine…” Arthur googles it quickly and frowns. “Colby doesn’t have a graduate department…”

“The Colby in Kansas does, but you won’t be in it.”

For a moment, Arthur can’t speak. Does Eames know?

When he realizes he needs to respond, Arthur sighs. “I hate it when you do this. Why can’t Ariadne run intel on this guy instead of me?”

“Dr. Wright. And…” he lowers his voice. Arthur can hear pen-clicking which means Ariadne is still in the room so she can most definitely still hear him, but Eames quiets himself out of courtesy. “I don’t want to put Ariadne in this kind of position. Maybe when she’s as old and jaded as us.”

Arthur is not a terribly big fan of college. Though he finds the work interesting, he dislikes dorms and college students in general. The required classes usually didn’t provide enough stimulation so he quickly lost interest and picked up others. This is how he taught himself Mandarin and Italian in two years and aced his class in world politics. He graduated a year early with no prospects and no idea what to do.

His Kansas drawl kept him from much work. Arthur suspected people thought him less intelligent the more he spoke. So he went back to school for mechanical engineering and dropped the accent.

Dropping the accent was harder than the engineering.

But, of course, with the accent he was Neil. Only after he graduated and moved to California did he become Arthur. Only after he met the Cobbs. Arthur met Mallorie Cobb when her architecture firm picked him up. They fastened themselves to each other and then Arthur to Dom Cobb as well.

The Cobbs were the youngest married couple he’d ever encountered—just a few years older than Arthur himself. Mallorie, Arthur’s secret favorite of the two, loved to coddle Arthur and buy him what he couldn’t afford. He liked to surprise her with pastries and talk about art. They flirted, even with Dom present, and for a while Arthur felt at home.

Eventually Eames came along.

“I just turned 33, Eames.” A lie, he’s 31. “I can’t pass for twenty-something.”

“If it helps, Ariadne wrote that you took two gap years before attending Colby College. You travelled to India to teach English. It changed you.”

Arthur is still irritated, but he’s looking for tickets to Paris. The train from Italy to Paris is one of his least favorite rides. He hopes they’ll work in Japan soon. He likes the trains there. “So that makes me…”

“Twenty-four.” He leans away, ostensibly to consult Ariadne and returns. “No. Three. Twenty-three.”

“How long will the job run?”

“Four weeks, tops.”

“Who else is on?”

“Just Ariadne and I for now. Though, if you feel we need more, it can be done. I’m letting you run full point. Just, uh…”

“Not Cobb. I know.” He doesn’t bother to tell Eames Cobb is still in retirement. “Hold on, Ariadne wants to—“

There’s a rustle as the phone is passed over. “If it’s any help,” Ariadne interjects. “We’re in a “To Catch a Predator” type of situation.”

Interesting.

Arthur prepares a bullet list of what the job requires and what he’ll need to do in order of priority. Eames rattles off reasons why Arthur should sign on. His eyes itch and his body hurts, but it’s been a while since he worked with Eames. Professionally speaking, Arthur misses him.

“I can be there in twenty hours,” Arthur says and hangs up the phone. Then he gets dressed and calls a taxi.

 

* * *

 

“Arthur, we’re so glad to have you.”

 Arthur scrubs a hand over his face. Even though he slept for about six hours on the train, he can’t push his body through the distinct sensation of a hang over.

 Where’s Eames?” He is hot and stale in his clothes and just wants to take a shower and get to work. Quietly.

“Asleep in his room.”

“Alright.” It’s nearly 10 pm. Arthur is past any sort of surprise at Eames. Or at least vocalizing it.

“He made up a room for you and left some folders on the desk.” Ariadne is already gravitating toward her blueprints. Like Arthur, she doesn’t like to be separated from her work long. “I made spaghetti. If you want some.”

Arthur is ravenous, but has no appetite. “Any chance of fruit or vegetables?”

“Strawberries in the fridge.” Ariadne mumbles, now completely engrossed. She’s crafting the campus with the gusto of a cathedral architect. Though, Arthur highly doubts KSU boasts a massive labyrinth outside the psychology department building.

Their plan so far is inelegant, but has potential. In short, Dr. Wright has been accused of sexual abuse, by both men and women, but never prosecuted or even fired from the program. His latest victim was the daughter of some mafia type guy—Alice—who had connections in dream share. 

Eames will double as their forger and their extractor. They are to look for evidence that would incriminate him. Secret photographs or someone privy to his actions. At least, they could use more names of his victims to ask for testimony. Hell, at this point, the client would even take blackmail.

It’s perhaps the noblest job any of them have ever done. Eames especially.

Eames plans to forge the daughter which—despite his complete access to the thoughts and mannerisms of his forge—has proved difficult. Eames has been introduced to Alice as a friend of the family. But Alice has gone silent and won’t even hint at any abuse. She’s been hiding out with her family in Paris, seeing one of the family’s therapists.

Which leaves Arthur to monitor Wright in class and give them an excuse to get him alone for a few hours. This isn’t so bad. But the unspeakable expectation sets heavy in Arthur’s limbs. Waiting to be acknowledged. It makes his skin crawl, but he’s good at it. He’s done it at least twice for work.

They’ve collected more information than Arthur is used to receiving when he starts a job. Ariadne tells him the next morning that Eames had tried to run point and extraction and gave up after a few weeks.

A few hours of extra research has unearthed twenty pages of research that Dr. Wright has produced about the effects of early child abuse. Disgusting.

Eames finally makes his first appearance after Arthur has made waffles.

“Arthur. Lovely to see you. How was the train?”

“Twelve hours long, but I was seated next to a man who slept the entire ride.”

“Mmm, sounds like a nightmare. No one to talk to.” 

Arthur chuckles, dry and exhausted. He had to play a lot of catch up which meant another all-nighter. He plans on drinking the coffee pot by himself. Ariadne can have a cup if she’s good.

“So. Shall we get started?”

 Started. Jesus. Arthur sighs and rubs his face, but settles next to Ariadne. “Why don’t you tell me about my Chester McCormick character?”

“McBride,” Ariadne corrects. Arthur’s blood seems to drop into sub-temperatures. When was the last time he even said that name? He doesn’t attach a surname to himself anymore. It’s just Arthur. 

Ariadne goes on, breaking through Arthur’s panic. “He’s from California. Which I thought would be easier for you.”

Arthur catches Eames’ eye, who smiles snidely. Eames knows Arthur isn’t from California, but apparently he hasn’t shared the information with Ariadne.

“And that’s about it. He’s a psych major especially interested in abnormal psychology. Eames said you would be comfortable there?”

Arthur got an online degree in psychology. He won’t be stellar, but with Eames’ help on homework and essays, he should be fine. “Alright. And is there a real Chester McBride?”

“He’s still at Colby and goes by his middle name.” Eames reassures. Arthur wonders if the real Chester McBride looks like him. “You should be in the clear at least long enough for the job.”

“So when do we fly out?”

“You start Monday,” Ariadne adds and has the social grace to look contrite. “So we’ll leave this Friday so we can get settled.”

It’s Wednesday. Arthur has a few more stops to make in Paris before he can sleep.

 

* * *

 

Arthur collapses into bed at 2 in the morning, entire face flat into the pillow. He can't breathe and doesn't care. Eames has nice guest bedrooms.

The knock at his door makes him want to die. It's Eames-shirtless though the house is cold-and Arthur slouches against the door frame, too tired to put on a pretense for someone he's known for so long.

"Shit," Eames says, not unkindly, "you look knackered. Never mind."

"What is it, Eames? I don't mind." He does mind, but it's his job to work through the minding.

Eames shakes his head, laughing. There is nothing so alluring to Arthur as that laugh. What's worse is the beard he's growing; the dusting of light hair makes Arthur's mouth water. He's never too tired to appreciate Eames' mouth and its surroundings.

"It's fine, Arthur, really. Just wanted to know if you were up for a roll in the hay. We are in cow town, after all."

He's tempted, really tempted. They've started to make a habit of this. Between the last three jobs they embarked on together, they've slepttogether eight times. The last job was six months ago. Arthur's skin itches all over.

"Come in," he says before he's fully made the decision. His mouth formed the words for him. "Let me take a shower, first."

Eames catches his wrist before Arthur can make his way to the en suite. "You're fine. Get in the bed, Arthur."

Arthur lets Eames guide him by the shoulders, into the bed. Eames uses the bulk of his body to press Arthur into the bed. His stomach has gotten softer, but his arms and shoulders are harder. Arthur curls his fingers around the thick of his biceps and pulls down.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up with Eames face in his neck, drooling into the divot of his collarbone. It's warm and comfortable, but Arthur feels a sharp pang of panic; he doesn't remember sleeping with Eames. This has happened before--waking up with no recollection of sex the night before. Not with Eames but with others.

It's been a while since his last incident. He thought he was gaining control over this.

"You fell asleep." Eames' voice is slow and thick. His arm tightens around Arthur's chest before releasing. "I did too."

"And you stayed?" Arthur laughs, shoving Eames away so he can get up.

"Hoped for some morning head," Eames says, but he's already rolled onto his stomach, snuffling into a pillow.

"Maybe later," Arthur says and goes to take a shower. Eames is gone when he returns.

 

* * *

 

 Arthur, despite his illustrious years in Kansas, has never been to Manhattan, Kansas. It seems like a pathetic lie, comparing this corner of Kansas to New York City. If asked, Arthur would say he prefers the New York's Manhattan. But it feels good to be home. Or something like it.

Their first stop when they land is to a house near KSU’s campus. For a one floor establishment with beer embedded in the carpet, it’s highway robbery. The house next door is filled with bros with a passion for loud dubstep.

Arthur is still so happy to be in Kansas that he’s started to whistle.

Sunday before he starts class, Arthur decides to take a risk and visit his childhood home. His mom is, as planned, out at work. Arthur removes a few boxes from his old room—all clothes—and then tries them on after he gets back to the KSU house.

The jeans are mostly too small. Neil liked his pants tight. Surprisingly, all the shirts and sweatshirts fit. Unsurprisingly, so do the shoes. He’s probably overselling youth, but he hopes to compensate for the beginnings of crows’ feet and forehead creases. He washes his hair of its pomade and locates the false glasses he adored when he first started undergrad at Mizzou. Striped hoodie and a T-shirt. Laced keds.

Any scrap of Mizzou pride he can scrape up rankles at the idea of going to KSU. Can’t spell suck without a K, an S, and a U.

He presents himself to Eames when he’s done. Ariadne laughs and Eames outright snickers.

Arthur isn’t great at disguises. He’s good at blending in, but he rarely wears disguises. The closest he gets is a t-shirt or ball cap. Sometimes sunglasses. Sometimes.

“So I take it it doesn’t work?”

“No, I'm not saying that at all,” Ariadne says. “It’s almost too much. What do you think, Eames?”

“Flawless. The band shirt is a nice touch.”

The Smiths. Arthur went through a phase. He refuses to be embarrassed about it.

“Just to reiterate,” Arthur says, “You _are_ doing all of my classwork.”

“But how will you learn, Arthur?” 

Arthur laughs. Ariadne punches Eames’ arm. Arthur worries he feels too comfortable with these two.  Something will go wrong.

 

* * *

 

The night before class, Arthur has a nightmare about Neil. Christmas lights are all he can remember. He feels off and unwilling to go to class. So, the average feeling a college student should cultivate.

Eames provides his student ID and ushers him off to class with a sack lunch that Arthur is certainly not going to eat (he ditches it just outside the psych building). Eames was cheerful all morning when he realized Arthur has purchased a longboard to get around campus.

Arthur is the first one in the lecture hall. He sits in the back corner, away from the door, and picks up where he left off in researching Dr. Wright. When he’s finished digging into his family life—nothing interesting there—the class has filled out and Dr. Wright is at the front of the class.

Dr. Wright is reedy with the body of a slightly toned q-tip. He has a moustache and, if he acquired a beer belly, he might be Neil’s type.

Arthur usually doesn’t think about Neil this often.

Class doesn’t yield much. It’s hard to tell much about a person in this kind of setting. But Arthur is already getting a feel for how he might fill the dream. He’s from the midwest, probably Kansas City based on the slightly different wording. Arthur himself was never quite able to pinpoint what sounded Kansas. If he were an actor like Eames, he might care enough to learn.

He needs to get into the office, though. And probably Wright’s house.

When class lets out, Arthur decides he should start building a relationship. Immediately. He doesn’t know Wright’s type, but he can roll with the punches. Including the literal ones.

“Hey, Professor,” he says. Not quite meek, but deferent at least. “Great lecture today.”

“Was it?” Wright turns from the board and wipes the chalk from his hands. “Hello, you must be my new student.”

“Chester, but Ches is chill too.” Is this how young adults talk? Or is he landing somewhere around teenager?

“Ches is a great name.” Wright extends a hand. “Dr. Wright.”

Wright’s almost cold, which worries Arthur. Dr. Wright has been accused predominately by his male students (three charges, to be exact. Alice was his first girl that they knew of) but maybe he’s not interested in Arthur. Not his type. 

Arthur dearly wishes he had access to the other victims. It would give him an idea of who he should be and he’s not the actor Eames is.  But…predators like Wright tend to be opportunistic. And Arthur has the muscle memory to be at least a little appealing.

“I really loved that article you wrote on child abuse. Fascinating work. I had no idea that children’s drawings could be indicative of sexual abuse!”

He can almost feel Wright’s temperature change. “Are you interested in child psychology?”

Chester is now. Arthur nods. “That’s why I chose your class. You’re one of the best in the field.”  Arthur can hear Eames telling him he’s laying it on too thick. Arthur is of the opinion that one cannot overdo fluffing an ego.

He’s probably right, based on Wright’s pleased smile. An unwanted thrill shimmies up Arthur’s spine. He’s desirable. He’s sexy. He’s good.

“Well, I look forward to having you in class, Chester. Sorry,” he smiles, “Ches.”

“You got it, Prof.” Arthur grins and backpedals a little before turning to leave. A little hero worship seems to be working right now. Maybe he won’t even need to hint at a sexual relationship.

 

* * *

 

Arthur ends up spending a lot of time with Eames on this job. Partially because he feels guilty just handing Eames his assignments and leaving. Partially because Eames is in a pleasant mood. He hasn’t called Arthur uptight even once.

They manage to create something akin to an inside joke (“In Peru?” It’s hard to explain.) and conspire against Ariadne to wrangle primary custody of the freezer. They simultaneously get hooked on _Mad Men_ and argue over whether or not Ariadne is a Peggy and who resembles Don the most.  (Arthur insists Eames is a Roger and it’s not a slight on his age—even if he is at least three years older than Arthur and no one wants to forget it.)

But whenever Arthur starts to get comfortable with Eames, something usually happens to disrupt it. Or, as is the case today, Eames will suddenly do a 180. Snap at Arthur for giving Ariadne pictures of Dr. Wright's office.

“What? She’s supposed to get enough information from three shots of a room. Hm?”

Arthur sucks his teeth. So it begins. “No, Eames. It’s what I managed to get so far.”

“The clients can’t wait forever.”

Arthur has a few things to say. They haven’t seen Eames’ forge of Alice. Arthur wasn’t called in until the project was already several weeks started. Why doesn’t Eames pick up some of the slack on research then? 

But instead he sighs. “I have a meeting with Wright in an hour. Text me if you need me.”

“Thank you so much for the update, Arthur.”

Deep breath in and then Arthur is out the door.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update for your Saturday reading pleasure.

 

It is getting nearly impossible for Arthur to fend off his Kansas accent. He can already feel some of the words falling away. And he misses Wendy and he misses his mother and he misses home. He’s snuck in a few more times to retrieve some clothes. Every time he goes home, he wants to stay.

And he still hasn’t seen his mom.

The last time he spoke to Wendy was just before he went to college. He gave her his necklace and a kiss, but didn’t tell her where he was going to school. She texted him every day for three months until the messages dwindled into once a month. Then every few months. Arthur discontinued service with that carrier and got a new number when he graduated.

Last he spoke to his mother was just before he changed his name. He lied and told her he was going into the Peace Corps. For all she knew, Neil had died in Nepal. Trying to save the sherpas or something.

He keeps tabs on both of them. Wendy was married to a man who managed a Walmart and now she was richer than she ever imagined. His mom had divorced twice and was now seeing an old boyfriend named Earl that had been really nice to Neil when he was a kid. Arthur routinely slips money into her bank account whenever it runs low. He assumes his mom hasn’t noticed.

Being in Kansas makes him think of them constantly. Wendy is in New York still (though she’s migrated upstate) so he can’t get the contact with her he craves. He wonders if she still texts that number from time to time. Wonder if she has forgotten about him altogether.

He knows he shouldn’t, but Arthur buys a burner phone and calls his mother.

“Hello?”

Arthur is in his room. Files are scattered everywhere and he’s still in his clothes from class. He’s had sex in this purple hoodie. He got fifty dollars and a happy meal for a handjob. The guy got semen on his sleeve.

“Hey,” he clears his throat and finally drops the California accent. It’s like taking off a wet wool sweater. At the same time, his real accent doesn't feel like he's getting any closer to himself. He isn't really Kansas anymore. “Hey, Mom.”

Silence on the other line. Then, “Neil?”

“I can’t talk for long, Mom. I just…wanted to know how you’ve been.” Bin, not been. Kansas. Arthur feels wrong and can’t figure out which one is right. Which one is not Kansas.

“How have _you_ been? Neil. I thought…”

“I know, Mom. And I’m so sorry. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He’s never heard his mom cry. “Are you coming home?”

“I can’t, Mom.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it, Neil McCormick. Of course you can.”

“I can’t, I’m…” he can’t bear to tell his mom that he’s…well, how would he even tell her? “I’m alright, but I don’t want to put you in danger.”

“I _miss_ you, Neil.” She sounds wrecked, pleading in a way he's never heard from his mother. But she was always good at getting what she wanted.

Arthur hangs up.

“That was sloppy.”

Arthur doesn’t jump, but he winces a little. An anxious tic. Eames fills the doorway, arms crossed. He’s smirking. Still in a sour mood.

Arthur just stares at him.

“Talking to your mom? While on a job. Do you want someone to kill her and bring you her hea—“

“23 Upper Belgrave Street,” Arthur interrupts. “Your sister, Amelia lives there with her husband, Nicholas and son, John.”

The amusement on Eames’ face freezes. Arthur is pretty sure that’s either panic or anger. “Let’s not threaten each other’s families, Arthur.”

Neil wants to tell Eames that he started it. Arthur holds his tongue. “Of course.”

“Good. I just came around for those files on Wright’s family.”

Arthur hands them over. His face is blank in the way he knows drives Eames crazy. It scares him. Arthur knows that his expressionless stare scares him shitless.

They almost leave it at that, but just before Eames leaves, he says, “That’s a pretty cute accent you have there, Arthur” and closes the door behind him.

Arthur kicks over a chair.

 

* * *

 

While they have most of the information they need and Ariadne is just a week from finishing the architecture of the dream, Arthur hasn’t made much progress with Wright.

They’re definitely flirting, but Wright seems to be more careful.

At some point, their client calls to ask if it wouldn’t just be easier for Arthur to just record a tape of Wright sexually abusing Chester. To Arthur’s surprise, it’s Eames who snaps at him.

He seizes the phone out of its cradle, switching the call off speaker-mode. “That’s not an option. If you wanted to just seduce him and capture the evidence, you shouldn't have hired us. We’ll be in touch.”

Then he hangs up and hunches out of the room. His mood is getting worse and it’s a better incentive to finish than an impatient client.

Ariadne seems to agree. “Well, that’ll cut a few thousands off our payday.”

Arthur laughs.

“Does he get like this often?”

“Sometimes. I think he just wants to finish up quick.”

“Well, he’s being a nightmare. You’re lucky you get to leave the house so often.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

Ariadne sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur waits until the next morning to approach Eames. He doesn’t have class today and the weather is hotter than it should be for the season. ("Climate change," Ariadne says every morning with distaste.) The sun is doing Eames good. He’s sprawled out in the backyard hammock, reading a book non-related to work.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Arthur begins.

“Would you?” Eames flips a page. Arthur’s pretty sure he wasn’t finished with that page, based on where his eyes were. “Well, go ahead.”

Arthur lowers the book with two fingers. “Your attitude is affecting work. It’s affecting my work, yours. We’ve worked through worse, but…”

Eames glares at him. “So what’s the problem?”

“Ariadne isn’t used to your mood swings.”

“If she plans to work with me again, then she’ll learn to get used to it.”

“Or,” and Arthur’s tone is perfectly level, “you could be reasonable and stop sniping at everything we say.”

Eames tries to wiggle his way into sitting. The hammock undulates wildly and they both end up laughing. Arthur steadies it with one hand above Eames’ head.

“Okay, okay. Fine. I’ll be nicer to Ariadne. Can’t make any promises about you, though.”

Arthur nods. “At least you’re predictable.”

Eames is in a good mood when they have dinner that night. Ariadne calls Arthur the lion tamer and Eames growls, good natured.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Arthur uses the PASIV to practice his shot. Or, more accurately, he practices his shot to relieve tension. 

But when he gets into the dream, the paper cut-outs at the shooting range all have moustaches. And no matter how hard Arthur focuses, he cannot dream them away. Losing control this close to an extraction is not a good sign. So Arthur lowers the gun and practices his long abandoned architecture skills.

He's trying to build a neighborhood with beige houses (they keep manifesting as blue)  when Eames comes by on a motorbike. Arthur knows on sight that it's really Eames and not a projection. Arthur would have outfitted his projection with a helmet.

"Been looking for you for a bit. You've got a huge dreamscape, you know that?"

It's a security measure of his own design. The bigger the dream, the harder it is to find information.

"Why are you looking for me at all?" Arthur says. It has more bite than he meant to inflect, but Eames smiles, unperturbed. He even laughs. "What's so funny, Eames?"

"I'm sorry, Arthur. It's just...have you seen yourself?"

"Once or twice."

"In the dream, I mean." Eames pulls out a compact and tosses it to Arthur.

He turns it over in his hand--it's pink and the cursive inscription, "GLOW UP," makes Arthur roll his eyes. When he flips it open, his throats feels tight; he's a teenager. Floppy hair and sunken cheeks like he hasn't been eating enough. Now that he thinks about it, he's ravenous. Hungry all the time like Neil was.

He snaps closed the compact and drops it on the ground to crush under foot. Impractically, the mirror dissolves to dust, spraying out a puff of shimmering glass.

"Now, now," Eames mock-soothes, "I think you look fetching like this."

"Perv," Arthur says, "I'm sixteen." Though he could also be older. Arthur didn't lose this haircut until he was nineteen. Though, if he were eighteen he would have a couple piercings. 

"So you're not doing this on purpose. Knew it."

Arthur runs his hand through his too-long hair, sighing. The longer they talk about this, the more he feels like Neil: hungry, horny, and restless. Mostly the latter. It's an itching feeling that rattles through his legs. He eyes Eames' motorbike. "Do you have a bike like that? Up top?"

Eames follows Arthur's gaze. "No, uh..." Something occurs to him, but he hides the surprise from Arthur by turning his face away. "Had one like it as a teenager, though. Now that I think about it." Eames shrugs and turns back to Arthur. "I crashed it."

Arthur brays a laugh and the sudden loudness of it startled Eames. Then he laughs too.

"Wanna ride?" Eames says. Neil's mother warned him never to ride on the motorcycle of a boy who might break your heart.

Arthur shrugs. "Whatever."

 

* * *

 

They ride through the dreamscape for hours, until Arthur's imagination inevitably starts repeating scenery. The same neighborhood repeated over and over. If Eames notes the Kansas suburban backdrop, he doesn't mention it. They ride in silence under the roar of the sputtering motorbike. Then they keep going until they hit the ocean. Whooping and hollering, Eames drives right into it. Arthur berates him as they tread saltwater. 

"You could have kicked us out," he says. They could have died, he doesn't say.

"I didn't," Eames says.

Infuriating. Arthur paddles towards him and kisses him. It's salty and Eames' mouth is soft and warm and for a moment Arthur feels really whole. He can't risk losing the feeling. He wraps his arms around Eames' neck, digs his fingers into his collarbones, and doesn't let go until they start sinking because Eames, for all his glamor-muscle, can't tread for the both of them.

So they swim to shore and Eames collapses on the sand. His jeans are so heavy with water they nearly drop off his waist. Arthur climbs over him and unbuttons his sandy shirt to peel over his shoulders. Eames watches him with one eye open, smirking lazily.

But when Arthur goes to unzip his jeans, Eames reaches down to stop him. "You're sixteen," he says.

"Yeah, in appearance. We're in a dream, Mr. Eames."

Eames shakes his head. "Can't. I don't have the stomach for it."

Arthur leans back, perplexed. "Isn't sixteen the legal age of consent in England." It's not a question.

"We're in the states."

"We're in a _dream_." Arthur is exasperated, but he knows a losing battle when he sees it. So he flops onto his back next to Eames. At first, he expects Eames to fold and turn over on top of Arthur. He doesn't. Water slaps up against their feet and, for a long time, they lie in silence.

Eames slides his arm under Arthur's head, jostling him until he gets his way, and uses the leverage to scoop him onto his chest. Arthur presses his cheek to the bare skin, just above the ridiculous Union Jack Eames has tattooed on his pectoral. He's tracing the lines--scarred and uneven like any bad tattoo--when he's dumped out of the dream.

Next to him, Eames wakes up slowly, rubbing his eyes. "Timer ran out," Eames reasons and lumbers out of the room.

As soon as Eames leaves, Arthur checks his reflection in the mirror. Old again. He is grateful that they didn't sleep together.

 

* * *

 

When Arthur makes progress with Wright, it’s all at once. After class, Arthur asks if he can talk to him sometime about his paper. Wright suggests they do it right now and leads him into his office. Arthur snaps a few more pictures. When he asks if he should close the door, Wright says yes.

They talk about dissociative disorders—Arthur mostly parroting what Eames has told him and what he’s learned from TV—and then eventually they just talk.

“Excuse me for saying this, Arthur, but you sound like a good Kansas boy.”

Well, he’s been caught again. He rolls with it. “Guilty.” He offers Wright a shy smile that he thinks he likes. His suspicions are confirmed when Wright squirms in his chair. Crossing and recrossing his legs.

“Well then, good for you. Home states are very important. Ah, may I ask how old you are, Ches?”

“Twenty,” he says. It’s unlikely Wright has access to his birthday.

“Oh, wow. Much younger than I thought.” Arthur thought he saw crows’ feet this morning. “Well, you’re exceptionally advanced for someone your age. Have you considered graduate school?”

As he answers, Arthur rakes his mind for a way to change the subject. This isn't conducive for what they need and the client's disapproval weighs heavy on Arthur's anxiety. When he can’t think of anything, he decides to go less subtle.

“I shouldn’t say this,” he leans in towards Wright, “but have you heard that Professor Garcia is sleeping with her TA?”

Wright goes very, very still. “Oh?”

“Yeah. At first I was like, 'Gross.' And then the more I thought about it, I realized they probably made a real good pair. I mean, where’s the harm at?”

“Nowhere,” Wright relaxes back in his chair. “Back in the 80s they used to tell us that our classes were a good place to find a future wife. Or husband. Boyfriend. What do you think about that?”

Ches shrugs and says, “Whatever.”

“I’ve been thinking about you, Ches.” He rounds his desk to lean on the front. Right in front of Arthur. “I think you’re a very special student.”

Arthur wasn’t prepared for this. All this. Right now. He thought that this would be another flirtation, a lead up to something bigger later.

He smells shampoo.

Arthur can’t remember what to do. Neil can’t either. He provides a smile and a spread of the legs, but nothing else. Nothing to say. Arthur checks out. Ches stays quiet.

Wright puts a hand on Ches’ knee. The gesture pitches Wright forward at an awkward angle, trying too hard. And it makes him feel sick. Ches just looks up at him, doe-eyed and still.

This seems to be the right thing to do because Wright leans even farther toward him. Kisses Ches. Arthur can feel himself kissing back. It’s cotton-mouthed and Wright tastes like mints. A lot of mints over unbrushed teeth. It's not so unpleasant, though Arthur can't bring himself to like it.

Wright puts a hand on Ches’ hip.

Then Arthur checks back in. Leans back. “Can we not do this here? I’m scared someone will walk in…And I’ve never…”

That’s an add-in he didn’t plan. But now that he’s said it, it seems like a good choice. Wright leans back and nods.

“No, no, no. I wouldn’t ask that of you.” He pauses. “How about you come over with your research for the upcoming paper? I assume you haven't finished it?"

Arthur shakes his head and Wright laughs, pats his knee. He thinks Ches is dumb, Arthur realizes. Arthur has never been considered dumb before.

"I’ll make you dinner and we can go over it and talk about it?”

Arthur nods. Dumb as Wright scribbles down his address for him. Dumb when Wright squeezes his hand and says, “Friday.”

“Friday,” Arthur repeats. His head is ringing.

 

* * *

 

He must have been in a stupor even when he got home. Because when a fan in the house suddenly turns off, leaving them in silence, Arthur realizes he’s at home and Eames has the professor’s address.

“This Friday will be our best chance,” Eames says, thumbing over the address. “What do you think, Ariadne?”

Arthur has done this before. Especially after Mal died. Checked out and talked to people, perfectly lucid, but not there. Neither Eames nor Ariadne seem to have noticed.

“With these new pictures I’ll be ready.” Ariadne is distracted, clicking through the photographs. She wanders over to her workstation in the dining room.

When she’s out of earshot, Eames turns to Arthur. “Are you okay, mate?”

“Fine,” Arthur answers immediately. “Just tired. I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

“Okay,” Eames seems likely to leave it at that, but when Arthur moves to go, he adds, “If you’re not, you don’t have to go under. You’ve done a lot.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I’ve got it.”

Eames starts to walk away, but Arthur has a sudden thought. “Wait, Eames? Can I see Alice?”

Eames’ expression instantly turns defensive. “I don’t need you nitpicking my—“

“No, I just…can I see her? Please?”

Eames looks dubious, but nods. They connect to the PASIV in near silence and Arthur’s heart pounds in his ears. He hasn’t seen Eames’ forge, hasn’t met Alice in person. All he’s seen is pictures: a thin girl with short blonde hair.

Arthur wakes up in the dream alert, but several years younger. He sighs and wonders if this is a permanent manifestation.

“This is her,” a soft, high voice says. Alice is skinny in an oversized sweater and leggings: typical college gear. Eames holds her arms out and turns around. “Satisfied?”

Arthur looks the forge over, pretending to appraise. He’s not satisfied. He’s never met Alice. For all he knows, this is the complete opposite of her. But, dry-mouthed, he says, “Looks good.”

Eames raises Alice’s eyebrow. “That’s it?” he says, dropping Alice’s soft waver. His low voice sounds odd from Alice’s small mouth. Hell, his low voice sounds odd from Eames' own mouth.

Arthur nods. “Yes, I…” Arthur shrugs. “I haven’t even met her, Eames. I wanted to know what she was like.”

Now, Eames just stares at him for a moment. Then, “She has a tattoo, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yup,” Alice’s voice is back. “I like to try to find a point of connection with forges I find…alien.” Eames lifts the side of her sweater and Arthur almost instinctually looks away. On her ribcage: a red balloon. “Turns out she’s a Stephen King fanatic. The red balloon is from—”

“ _It.”_ Arthur’s stomach hurts. Like any sane adult, he hates clowns. “She looks great, Eames. Thank you.”

They exit the dream in silence and Eames doesn’t even say goodnight. But he helps Arthur remove his PASIV line.

When Arthur sleeps that night, he has nightmares. He wakes up in the middle of the night, remembering Neil and trying to figure out where they are—him and Neil. When he wakes up again in the morning, he’s forgotten it.

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter Three

* * *

 "I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap. / I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black."  


* * *

 

Arthur equips himself with a backpack (books, notebooks, and three handguns), a sedative for Wright (tasteless, colorless), skinny jeans, and another band t-shirt under a zip hoodie (loose enough to conceal his chest holster). In so many words, he's ready.

Eames has dipped back into his sour mood. He’s unwilling to help Arthur ready the PASIV and on the drive over to Wright’s house, everyone sits in complete silence. They stop a block away from Wright’s house. When Arthur gets out, Ariadne tells him to be safe and to signal if he needs help. Eames just grumbles.

Apparently, he’s going to grumble his way through the job.

Arthur sways up to the door, knocks, and then knocks again until it’s opened. He’s tense. Much tenser than he realized. His shoulders are pinched towards his neck. His posture hurts his back, it's so straight. His knees are shaking a little. He can’t remember when this last happened to him.

When he opens the door, Arthur's demeanor must come off as youthful nerves because Wright says, “Don’t look so anxious. I’m not going to bite.”

From Arthur's mouth: "I wouldn't mind if you did." And his voice is so thin, it's hard to understand why Wright believes it. But he does; he laughs.

Arthur follows him inside his house. It’s not what he expected. It’s just a standard, cookie cutter suburban house with paintings of prairie landscapes and horses. His furniture is mostly leather, but worn leather. And the whole house smells like tomatoes. Arthur's eyes chase the scent for a tomato planter or a garden, but the curtains are drawn closed. That's fine, he convinces himself. That means the team won't have to lower the curtains themselves.

It only takes ten minutes for Wright to start making a move. Ches has organized his study materials over Wright’s kitchen table. Wright’s foot is pressed alongside Ches’. He hasn’t looked away from him since he entered. Arthur can feel his eyes following him, he swears.

“You’re a one of a kind person, Ches.” Wright presses his calve against Ches', against Arthur’s. His leg feels abnormally warm.

_You’re my special boy._

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur talks his way into making drinks (whisky with a sedative). They move to the bedroom, sipping their drinks and, before Wright has a chance to take things any further, he's already passed out. (Though, he did manage to place a hand on the back of Arthur’s neck. Arthur rubs the spot where his hand rested.)

The team comes in as Arthur is laying Wright on the floor. Eames has the PASIV.

“That’s cold, Arthur. Won’t even put him on the bed?”

“If you want to lie next to him, Mr. Eames, be my guest.”

Ariadne snorts and starts uncoiling the PASIV lines. “He'll need to be there when he wakes up anyway. I’ll take the floor. Last time I woke up with a crick in my neck because someone insisted we sit in straight backed chairs.”

“And I suppose you think I should have gotten you a chaise lounge,” Eames says.

Ariadne interjects with "I just said I'd take the floor."

But Eames charges on, “We’ll put a pillow beneath your head and everything.”

Arthur didn’t know they’d done a job without him. Perhaps multiple. He can’t tell if it’s inadequacy or envy he’s feeling. He should have known this.

What other point person would they hire?

He sets up his iPhone and music as they banter. He encounters a text message from Dom's burner phone, which gives him pause. It says simply: "how r u?" in Dom's characteristically outdated text language. Arthur hasn't told Dom that he's in the middle of a job. He hasn't contacted him in seven months. But it's not unusual for Dom to check in. He'll text back after all this.

Arthur no longer uses Piaf for the signal and has since moved to Nirvana. He accidentally plays a few bars as he sets the alarm. The grungy guitar settles his nerves. Ten minutes. Budgeting in extra time for the smaller team. He can do this.

"Ariadne, I would never."

"You would, and I'm not sure I care."

Eames and Ariadne are still bickering, voices light. Eames' sour mood seems reserved for Arthur.

Was Arthur busy during their last job? How did he miss that they were working together? He’s not jealous so much as concerned. Along with Yusef, this is Arthur’s preferred team. If they’ve found a different point man, Arthur needs to know. Who he’s competing with, why he’s being phased out, and if his name is still good in the community.

His confidence wavers and he chastises himself for it, a frustrated nip at the very tip of his tongue. He’s letting self doubt rule when he should be preparing himself for the dream. He can’t remember his self taught instincts. How to combat doubt. Arthur’s been juggling personalities for too long.

“Arthur, we’re ready when you are,” Ariadne says, somehow managing to sound curious without asking a question. Her eyes are on Arthur’s. Her empathy is unnerving.

“Ready.”

Arthur hands out the earbuds and lets them prep their own needles. Outside, a young man they hired off Craig’s List sits in a car outside with instructions to not let anyone into the house. It’s planned that, should anything go wrong, Arthur will be the first to leave the dream and Ariadne will run extraction. Arthur has two holstered guns and a spare under the bed just in case.

Everything is planned out to Arthur’s brand of perfectionism.

But he feels dread as if going in blind.

 

* * *

 

As discussed, Eames and Arthur find themselves in the dreamscape of a nondescript lecture hall. Rather, Alice and Ches find themselves in Dr. Wright’s class.

Ches is young, of course, and Arthur is disappointed. He's wearing a quarter sleeve baseball t-shirt, blue and white. Arthur recognizes it immediately as one of Neil's and he's even wearing that ridiculous rope necklace Neil used to love. Arthur tugs at it, perturbed with his subconscious manifestations.

Ches sits dead center of the class. Alice sits in the front row, to the far left. A few more students scatter throughout the hall, but Arthur feels no compulsion to look at them. His eyes are locked toward the front of the class, avoiding the magnetic urge to wander toward the reverse quarter profile of her head. 

Ariadne did not choose the seating. Wright did.

Wright stands at the board, writing in the foggy symbology of dreams. His lecture is a dull murmur that he himself isn’t listening to. Every time he turns, his eyes are on Arthur. This was not what they were expecting.

Arthur can sense Ariadne is outside the classroom. And he knows Eames is already planning a way to get alone with Wright. His eyes inevitably gravitate towards Alice. The back of her head is shaved peach fuzz. Eames rubs it, perhaps sensing Arthur's gaze. He turns Alice's head and slides her eyes back towards Arthur. They make eye contact and Arthur immediately snaps his attention back to the board. Wright's back is to them, he didn't see.

The lecture stretches on and on. Arthur checks his watch. He’s chewing gum, apparently. He blows wide bubbles and lets them pop. Scrapes the gum from his lips with his teeth. Sprawls his legs wide just because it feels comfortable this way. This isn’t Ches and it really isn’t Arthur.

Finally the dream shifts and the class ends. Eames cuts off Wright before he can make his way to Arthur. Arthur scuttles out of the room, breathing hard. Some of Wright’s projected students stare as they pass, but the dream remains in tact. Ariadne is a beautiful architect.

Arthur finds her in Wright’s office, unsuccessfully picking a lock on his desk. It’s an oak behemoth that dominates the room and dwarves the two office chairs before it. Ariadne hyperbolized the desk’s size. A nice psychological touch. Arthur may compliment her later.

She’s getting better at her job. She doesn’t flinch when Arthur opens the door and enters.

“What took you guys so long?” She finally gives up on the desk, smacking her palm across the top and scattering papers all over the floor.

She's never been good with picking locks, Arthur thinks smugly. "Wright's lecture took way longer than we expected."

“What? 'Way longer?' I’ve been in here for…” She looks up and sees Arthur, manifested as a teenager. She’s visibly startled. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” Arthur blows another bubble. Rifles through Wright’s books. “Why?”

“No reason.” Ariadne kicks the desk. She looks like Wendy sometimes. Small and sharp. “I don’t think there’s anything in here.”

“Makes sense.” Arthur pulls out a book on early adolescent imaginative play. “He probably didn’t rape her here.”

Silence from Ariadne. Arthur looks up from the book.

“What?” He’s getting a little sick of that look from her. Makes him feel like a freak.

“Then why did you have me construct his office?”

He doesn’t know why. It seemed right at the time. Arthur and his choices seem distant to him now. But he’s not quite Chester either. “Just occurred to me, I guess. Come along. I got an idea.”

Arthur steers them out toward the residential area. Vaguely heading toward the direction of Wright’s house until things start to look more familiar. Lower middle class suburbs with 70s style housing.

Ariadne is growing increasingly anxious beside him. “Arthur, I didn’t build any of this.”

He shrugs. “So? It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” He finds the right house, though it’s between the wrong houses. Some sort of illogical amalgam of Wright's neighborhood and Neil's. He tries to open the door, but it’s locked. “Fuckin’ typical.” He gets down to one knee to pick the lock. Unlike Ariadne, Neil has always been good at picking locks. Wendy taught him.

“So, is Wright building this? Arthur, what’s going on? Where’s Eames?”

“Distracting Wright, as per the plan, duh.” The lock snicks open. He pumps a fist in victory. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”

Ariadne follows him in, but stops when she sees the Christmas tree in the living room. “Arthur,” Ariadne says and he’s getting really tired of her saying that fucking _name_. “Where are we?”

“Wright’s house.”

“This isn’t his house, Arthur.” She’s giving him that look again and he really doesn’t have time for this. “Wait, are _you_ building this? Arthur?”

He sighs. Enough of this bullshit. “Just stay here. I’m going to check the bedroom. There’s gotta be something in there.”

“This is insane. I’m going to get Eames.”

“See if I care. Get your boyfriend. Have yourself a fuck. I’ve got a job to do.” He doesn’t turn to see Ariadne’s expression, but he hears her disgusted scoff and as he makes his way to the bedroom he hears the door closed. "Whatever."

There's a lockbox under the bed, which he picks open with ease. Then, his phone vibrates in his pocket. A shitty Nokia he bought himself in college. In the pixelated font: Cobb. Cobb? Which Cobb?

He presses the answer call button and for a moment, the breathing on the other end sounds like Mallorie. He presses the button to end the call and stares at the lockbox. He knows he's in a dream, but can't quite remember why or how he got here. Cobb. Mal Cobb, he can remember, and he remembers something about a token in a lockbox. That reminded her it wasn't real. She'd told him, told someone, something?

Fuck it.

The top falls back with a clatter against the hard wood floor. Inside, polaroids. Polaroids of him, of Neil. Sucking on Coach's fingers. Covered in cereal. Eyelashes clumped together with tears and...

"Arthur?" It's Eames' low voice. Arthur remembers himself.

Arthur slams the lockbox closed and shoves it back under Coach's bed. He feels his pocket. No cell phone.

Fuck.

"Where's Ariadne? Should I shoot myself out?" Arthur can't bring himself to look at Eames, shame cuts through him and he hunches over the wound.

"Extracting his office. It should be fine."

Arthur stands and runs a hand through his hair. It's as long and loose as Neil's. He can't bear himself. 

"Let's get back to her then. Finish the job."

"Arthur, wait--" Eames lays a hand on his shoulder as he passes. 

Arthur doesn't flinch. He leans into the touch for a moment before shifting his weight toward the door. His body feels so heavy. Old, somehow. "Not now, Eames."

Eames' hand slides, fingertips brushing down Arthur's back as he removes the hand.  "Alright. But after."

"After," Arthur agrees, but dreads it.

 

* * *

 

They split up. Eames to find and distract Wright. Arthur to find Ariadne. When he returns to the office, Ariadne has pried the safe open with a crowbar. Bullet marks dent the side, around the lock. 

Ariadne is reading through some papers, standing next to the popped open safe with wide eyes. "He's into child pornography," Ariadne says, unable to look up from the document. "I have all his log ins and passwords for these sites. Holy shit, guys."

Arthur should read them over to double check it's enough. He knows he should, but he's exhausted. "That's great. Can you memorize them?"

Ariadne nods, not looking up. Her eyes aren't moving. There must be pictures.

"Good. Let's--"

Gunshots fire from within the building and there's a great roar as projections fill the halls.The office door flings open and Arthur doesn't even have time to flinch before he recognizes it's Eames shoving his way into the room. He's missing his left sleeve and the bare arm bleeds from several entry wounds. 

"Quick! Fucking quick, barricade us in!"

Arthur seizes the desk and slams it against the door, barely missing Eames as he leaps away. 

"Now what?" Ariadne snaps, her composure finally broken. She still grips the documents in her hand.

For Arthur, the concern feels distant. They got what they needed anyway.

"I lost control of Alice there for a moment," Eames huffs, readying his gun. "Said some things that miffed old Wrighty."

Arthur can't bring himself to chastise him. "Keep him occupied for as long as you can." He shoots himself out of the dream.

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter Four

When Arthur wakes up, he gets right to work. First he pens a hasty bedside note to Wright: "Crazy night last night. Got way too drunk. Can't remember anything. Can you? See you in class. xx Ches."  By the time he's finished the note, Ariadne is out and gasping for breath.

"Gotta write down his site information before I forget," she mumbles as she wrests the pen from Arthur's hand.

Arthur leaves her to it and locates a bottle of wine off Wright's impressive wine rack, the nicest he has. He pours himself two glasses and drinks them both. Then he pours the whole bottle down the drain and leaves the empty and the glasses by Wright’s bedside table.

Eames is still under with Wright when he returns to the bedroom.

Ariadne shrugs, already packing her things. "Must have calmed him down." She shakes her head. 

Arthur’s heart is in his throat. The ghost of Neil haunts his bones, his posture, the way he frames his thoughts. He shrivels, remembering his behavior in the dream. For years, he had carefully constructed a professional persona around Ariadne. Only to have it ruined within a matter of minutes. 

Arthur looks at his watch and winces. Fifteen minutes. They had only been under for fifteen minutes. 

"Hey, Arthur…” Ariadne begins, her voice tight, “I—“

With a jolt, Eames wakes up and Arthur has scarcely ever been more grateful to him.

"Let's get out of here,” Eames says, ripping the IV out of his arm. “Shall we?"

Ariadne tries to catch Arthur’s eye, but he turns his back and leads the way out.

\---

In the morning, Ariadne takes the information to the client while Eames and Arthur run surveillance on Wright for signs he may know. Since Arthur, of course, bugged the house, they can stalk him in the comfort of the rented house. Arthur is in a pair of designer jeans, but he's still wearing a hoodie from when he was Neil. Eames isn't wearing a shirt at all and has been lounging around in just sweatpants.

Most of the morning is passed with agreeable banter, carefully sidestepping what happened in the dream. But Arthur knows it can't last forever and, sure enough, around noon Eames clears his throat.

"Ariadne won't get home for another few hours. Might be a good time to talk." It's careful for Eames, so Arthur is already on the defense. Something prickles the back of his neck. Something not quite right.

So he starts with a hunch. "Was I your first choice for point?"

"Oh Arthur, darling," Eames says, voice honey-sweet. It’s too thick. "You're always my first choice."

"No. Eames. Was I the first point you called?"

Eames doesn't have to answer; Arthur can see it all over his face.

"Why did they back out? Or did you fire them?"

"She didn't want to...pose as bait."

"Why not have Ariadne do it?”

“We’ve talked about this.”

"Then why did you think I'd do it?"

Eames has a tell. An obvious one for a paid liar: he looks away when Arthur gets close to the truth. He doesn't know if Eames has this tell with anyone else. He's never observed its replication.

Arthur feels cold from the inside, like the blood in his neck is frozen and his heart pumps the chill through his body. ”How much do you know?"

"Darling, I--"

"How much," Arthur says, and he's so angry his voice trembles low beneath the baritone, ”do you know, Eames?"

"I know you used to go by Neil McCormick," Eames says. 

Arthur closes his eyes. It's over. 

"And that you used to exchange sex for--"

"How long have you known? Before or after Fischer?"

"After." Eames has the grace to not affect apologetic. But he doesn't look Arthur in the eyes either and he hates Eames for it. If Arthur can face Eames now, then Eames can return the courtesy.

Still, there is small relief in Eames only knowing after. He doesn't have to comb through the inception, looking for clues that Eames might have guessed. He doesn't have to comb his memories for moments Eames might have mocked him. 

"Who else knows?"

"No one."

"Did you sell it to anyone?"

"The information that you used to be a prostitute? No, Jesus Christ, Arthur. What kind of man do you think I--"

"But that's why you hired me. Because you thought you could use it."

"Well,” Eames snipes. He’s not an even-tempered man, especially when under attack. Arthur must steel himself for what comes next. “You have experience, don't you? That's how one gets hired for a job, isn't it?”

Arthur's lip curls. He turns his attention back to the laptop screen where Wright is on the surveillance camera that Arthur hid in his room. He sits on the edge of his bed with a tablet, typing at something Arthur can't see. 

"What I don't understand," Eames continues, pushing his luck, “Is why things went so haywire with you back there."

On screen, Wright is going through something. He's distressed. He picks up the tablet, types a little and then sets it back down again to pace around the bedroom. Arthur reaches across the desk for his notebook, but Eames slams his palm down over Arthur’s.

Arthur looks up to him, eyes hot. ”I’m trying to do my job right now, Eames. If you could--"

"Whose house was that anyway?"

Arthur scoffs and angles his body away from Eames, towards the screen. He rips his hand out from under his. Wright is reading Ches' note to himself, rubbing a hand through his hair, over his jaw. Then he's back to the tablet.

"Eames, please. Something is going on."

“No, you're not getting out of this one. We deserve to know what's going on with you, _Neil._ ”

Quiet in the room as Arthur considers his own emotions. It's not that Eames used his birth name. It's not even the way he spat it out. It's the assumption that this name would hurt Arthur, that the memory of who he was would weaken him. That's what causes heat to rise up in Arthur’s chest, shooting straight up to his ears and temples. Rage so hot that his other senses surrender to the rush of adrenaline that causes Arthur to kick Eames in the ankles.

Eames arm extends to the desk to brace himself, but the momentum of his fall is too strong and Eames takes Arthur’s notes and laptop with him.

On the floor he grabs Arthur by the shins and pulls. Arthur’s head cracks against the floor when he falls, so he kicks Eames in the nose on instinct. He smells blood and it could be his own, or it could be gushing from Eames’ broken septum.

It's silent just long enough for Arthur to recognize that his phone is ringing. He crawls up to where it's charging on his desk. It's Ariadne. Arthur picks up, feeling the back of his head for blood.

"Arthur," she says and her voice is tight with concern. Not good. "Wright. He's deleted all his accounts. All of the evidence gone. We're fucked."

The swearing is harsh and breathy in Ariadne's high rasp. It reminds him of Mal.

"Have you spoken to the client?” Arthur asks. He prays that she hasn't, but suspects otherwise.

"He wants us to go in again. What the hell happened? Why did he suddenly delete all his porn accounts?"

"I don't know." Arthur looks over to Eames who has his eyes on the ceiling. Blood covers his mouth, chin, and neck. But he isn't putting pressure on the break to cessate the bleeding. Arthur rolls his eyes at Eames’ melodrama. "I'll look into it."

They exchange some information and Arthur hangs up. He waits for a few minutes, watching Wright tap away at his tablet. 

Then, slow and measured, "You wanted to talk about our mistakes in the dream. What did you do to Wright? What did you talk about?"

Eames turns his gaze to him, and the sight of his expressionless eyes and bloody face would be eerie…if Arthur hadn't taught him that expression.

“Well?” Arthur prompts.

Eames huffs and gets up, dripping blood onto his shirt and Arthur’s floor. "Fuck off, Arthur. Really."

Arthur sighs and waits for Ariadne to return.


	5. Chapter Five

Arthur decides it’s time to call Dom back. The first time he calls, he goes straight to voicemail: “Cobb. It’s me. Call me back.” He waits a few minutes, but when Dom doesn’t return his call, Arthur gets some work done.

Arthur has the weekend and some change before his next class. He had an essay due, but Arthur had neglected it under the assumption that the extraction would be over by now.

He can't ask Eames to write it for him so, in addition to the prep he needs to do for the next extraction (order more somnacin from their American source, draft a new plan) he has to write an essay on disassociative identity disorder.

Arthur is poking around on EBSCO when his burner rattles across the desk. He picks up on the second ring.

“Arthur,” comes Dom’s voice, soft and fatherly in his frank way. “How are you?”

Arthur’s eyes drift over to his EBSCO research and the thick layer of sticky notes surrounding the screen of his laptop, reminding him what needs to be done. One is in Eames’ indiscernible cursive: DISLODGE STICK IN ASS, though “dislodge” is wildly misspelled. It's an old note.

This is the new plan: Chester will continue going to class, will continue to talk to Wright, will continue to encourage Wright. Next time that Arthur gets the chance to go home with him, they'll run another extraction.

But the team has lost its rhythm. Eames is moodier than ever, prone to leaving the room mid-discussion. Ariadne doesn't trust either of them anymore. And they still don't know what prompted Wright to delete his accounts.

Arthur considers telling Dom that he's in the midst of a job gone very wrong. He even considers telling him the details and asking for advice.

On instinct he says, “Not bad. How are you?”

“Remember that army expression? FUBAR? That's the job I'm working right now.”

This gets Arthur’s attention. “You're supposed to be in retirement. Unless, Phillipa’s student teacher conferences have gone horribly awry.”

Dom chuckles at his joke. “It's a long story and…” his voice lowers, “I'm actually calling for a favor.”

Of course.

“What do you need?” Arthur is already preparing notes.

“Our pointman died,” Dom says frankly. 

“I'm in the middle of a job, Dom.”

“Damn. Well, how much does it pay? We could pay you more.”

This is tempting. Arthur considers his EBSCO research again. It only dawns on him now that this Wright job is below his abilities. He's less pointman than pawn.

“Ah, I'm not sure, Dom…”

Dom sighs, a sharp exhale through his nose. He's frustrated with Arthur and it makes Arthur’s jaw clench. 

“I need you, Arthur. At least for a few days. It's a fascinating job. Corporate espionage has always been your strong suit.”

It has and Arthur so desperately wants to feel competent again, but…

“I can't,” Arthur insists, his tone hardening. “I'm busy.”

Silence on Dom’s end. Then, “What's wrong, Arthur?”

“Everything is fine, Dom.”

“What's your job like? Is it tough?”

This is Dom’s tell: the affectation of fatherly concern. It's his default and, often, dishonest.

“Ariadne called you,” Arthur deadpans. “Didn't she?”

“Not recently,” Dom says slowly. “Why?”

He's getting tired of his coworkers treating him like an invalid. “Did your pointman even die?”

“Arthur, of course, I simply—“

“Or did she beg you to take me off their hands?”

“No, Arthur. We just thought it would be good for you to take a break—“

“Don't call me for a while, Dom. And if Ariadne asks, you changed your mind about trying to get new off this job. You thought better of trying to deceive me.” Arthur waits for a response. When it doesn't come, he snaps, “Didn't you, Dom?”

He sighs. “Understood, Arthur.”

“Good.”

“For what it's worth, we were trying to help you.”

Arthur ends the call and turns off the phone.

—-

Arthur doesn't sleep Saturday night just so he can finish the essay. Nor does he sleep Monday night and when he wakes up on Tuesday, nothing feels real.

Downstairs, Ariadne and Eames are shouting at each other and this must be what woke Arthur. He hears Ariadne say, "Well what was I supposed to do about Arthur?" and then both go quiet. Probably waiting to see if he’d heard.

He can't stay in this house. It's suffocating. He needs to get out. In college, he would take long drives through Missouri. At night, the winding highway through the tall trees satisfied something in him. A danger he could control, a freedom that didn't derail him. Maybe he could be that way again.

Still in the clothes that he wore to Wright’s house, Arthur shuffles past his coworkers in the kitchen. Eames comments on his appearance, but Arthur doesn't waste his dwindling brain power on processing his words. 

He leaves without preamble, gets into their rental car and drives without buckling his seatbelt. The sensor in the seatbelt beeps at him in fifteen second intervals, but it doesn't seem worth the effort. For thirty minutes, he drives down the highway. The sun sets and this is Kansas at its best. The long purple shadows over the flat, dry land. Trash along the highway’s gravel shoulder. 

He loses patches of road. Blinks the sunset from orange to pink to purple. And then it's night. Arthur is so tired.

—-

He wakes up on an airplane, drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee. Arthur despises any company that drops a letter from the participles and worse, the coffee is _iced._

This is the least of his problems. Arthur can’t find his burner and he doesn't know where the plane is headed. Arthur has class in two days. If it's still Tuesday. 

The temporal space between the car and the airplane is a blurred dark red. Like the backs of his eyelids or a fever dream. Everyone else on the plane is asleep and isn't until Arthur absorbs the neutral environment of the cabin that he recognizes this might be a dream.

On high alert, Arthur searches the area around him. First, his possessions. He has a rucksack, a literal rucksack with shoestring draw cords, but it’s empty except for a book on Roswell. He must have bought this while asleep. Arthur rolls his eyes, mentally avoiding the panic of his missing totem.

As the elderly woman to his left slumbers, he's searches her bag. He tries to focus on the solid metal of a gun. The concentrated way that he can will the unconscious universe to bring him a glock. No, the way the gun has already been there in his hand.

The gun never appears.

When he can't find it, he searches again for his totem. Instead, he finds a blue papermate pen. Arthur doesn't use papermate. He hates the brand. 

Wait. This isn't his pen. 

It's the pen he used to write a note from Ches to Wright, stashed thoughtlessly into his zip hoodie pocket where it would remain forgotten until this moment. Arthur stares, dumbfounded. Remembers now that his totem is on his bedside table, also forgotten.

He wakes the woman next to him, doesn't mind her irritability.

“Where are we headed?”

The woman narrows her eyes at him, suspicious of Arthur’s intentions.

“Please,” Arthur admits. “I’m…I’m not well.”

This softens her, though only enough to mutter, “New York.”

—-

When Arthur was new to dreamshare and dreamshare was new to the world, things were different. He entered dreamshare right after college, at a time when extraction teams were unheard of. At that time, dreamshare was mostly used in personal matters and mostly to spy on other people. And Arthur broke into the dreams of a lot of rich husbands and wives suspected of cheating.

One of his first jobs was researching a house wife in New York. She was active on social media and Arthur spent weeks in the comment section of her Facebook, stalking her friends for more information.

It was there, that he stumbled across Wendy’s Facebook page. He recognized her, even in the thumbnail profile picture. He recognized her wide grin and eyes. And he ached.

She had a different name now. Married, probably. Arthur clicked through her albums, searching for the reoccurring man who could be her husband.

He was bearded and a little round in the waist, but cute in an approachable way. She would have been reluctant to introduce him to Neil.

Arthur had almost called her then. But instead, he printed her contact information and a picture of Wendy and her husband in front of their new suburban house.

—-

It's this house. Arthur stares up at it and he can still smell the plane on his clothing from the flight.

Not his clothing, _Neil's_ clothing. Neil is here for Wendy.

Arthur is here for Wendy.

Before he goes in, he creeps around to the picture window. Though his view is largely obstructed by curtains, he catches movement. Then, Wendy.

She is older now. She's wearing a maxi skirt and long beaded necklaces. She turns on the tv, then disappears into what might be the kitchen.

He checks his rucksack again, looking for his totem. Instead, he finds a snow globe that “hearts” NYC. And the book on Roswell.

Arthur considers the book for a moment. To Neil, this must mean something. Something that Arthur forgot. He tucks it away and circles to the front of the house.

For a moment, he considers leaving. He saw Wendy. Saw her upstate house and her tiered peasant skirt. He saw she was okay. That should be enough.

It wasn't. He wanted to talk to Wendy. Worse, he wanted to go back to a time when he could drive around with her and rest his head in her lap. Her fingers would comb through his hair and she'd tell him about their future. Their glamorous futures together.

Arthur knows this isn't possible. Knows they aren't the same people anymore. And still he pines.

The door opens, though Arthur doesn't remember knocking. Wendy is there, half of a grilled cheese in her hand. She drops it, mouth agape.

“Neil fucking McCormick,” she says. Her voice rasps over the high lilt of his name and Arthur can tell she never quit smoking. “I knew you'd be back on my doorstep some day. Come on in.” She turns to guide him inside, then pauses and makes a quarter turn. “But first…”

She shoves him, both hands against his shoulders, and the force is hard enough to make him stagger back.

He laughs and rights himself. How was he so tired just moments ago? He's alert now, the edges of his headache fading rapidly. His body coming into focus.

“I deserve that.”

“Yeah, you really do. Come in, any way.”

Her house isn’t very clean and it makes Arthur miss her more. Her kids’ toys are scattered everywhere and the kitchen counter is full of Tupperware. The living room is clean though and when they sit on her microsuede couch, she wraps a chenille blanket around his shoulders without asking. Without needing to ask.

She catches him up on her husband and kids. Arthur already knows their names and the school her children attend, but he listens with near-rapture. 

Espionage, especially of the digital variety, cannot account for behavior. The way Wendy still talks through her nose. Or the way she no longer bites her cuticles out of anxiety. It's wonderful to see unfolding before him.

She asks Neil what he's been doing, but she says it with a wrinkled nose. As if she's already flinching from the answer.

Arthur is still wearing one of Neil’s hoodies. And he’s aware of the brittle sensation below his eyes, his sickly color. He knows how he must look to her. As hungry and unstable as Neil was. As Neil has always been.

Wendy extends a hand to rest her fingers on his wrist. “As long as you aren't on drugs, you can stay here.”

He can't help himself. Arthur laughs. He laughs hard and manic and shoves air through his lungs until he laughs out the ache.When he's finished, Wendy doesn't say anything. She doesn't even flinch. Arthur is glad he came.

Then he tells her everything. Partially.

He leaves out dreamshare, of course. Instead, he explains his past few months. Explains the months of recon on a sexual abuser. He explains his coworker, “Charlie,” and his erratic behavior. When he explains Wright, and what he's had to do with Wright, Wendy presses a hand to her chest.

“Neil, honey, why don't you just get up and leave?”

“The girl and all the other students he abused," he explains, and his voice feels heavy. “And I can't let him, the professor, just…” he sighs, “get away with it.”

Wendy nods sagely and gestures to his hands. Arthur looks down and is surprised by a cup of tea. Chamomile. When did that get there?

“So he must be the hardest part of this whole thing.”

“No.” Eames. The things he said. The way he looked at Arthur like he was nothing. “Charlie. The way we fought before I left.”

“He said something mean?”

“I broke his nose.” Arthur rubs the back of his neck. “It was right after we had received the news of the professor.”

“It sounds to me like he’s jealous.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Not how sexual predators work,” he says.

“Not the pervy professor, genius. The guy you've been working with. Sleeping with. I bet he’s, like, madly in love with you.”

Arthur snorts. “Nobody is in love with me, Wendy.”

“Neil. Everybody is in love with you. It's the tragedy of your existence.”

“To be loved?”

“No, Neil,” she sighs, but she’s not frustrated. “To be loved and not feel it.”

“I missed you, Wendy.”

“Sounds like you're about to take off again.” She looks around her living room, at the life she's made with her family. At the family she's made with her life. Her life without Neil. “That's okay. Bill will be home with the kids soon and it’s best they don't see you.” Wendy laughs a bit. “I'm still not convinced that you're not on drugs.”

They stand together and they embrace, holding each other tight. He grew up thinking this woman was his soulmate. For a moment, he considers begging her to let him stay, but the moment passes. 

—-

Neil takes a train into the city and finds sex. It doesn't take long. Neil learned early in life that sex isn't hard to come by, so long as you ask.

First, he does something that he'd long promised he'd never do: he goes to a somnacin den. It's in the backroom of a strip club: twelve cots in a row, half occupied. A heady, rolling bass thrums through the room, vibrating the somnacin needle, Neil sinks into the cradle of his elbow.

The somnacin is cut with something because Neil’s dreamscape is syrupy and strange. His legs feel loose as he drifts towards the open doors of a sex club.

Twenty minutes at a club, and he's in a bathroom stall with a middle aged man who introduced himself as Jeremy. Jeremy has graying blonde hair and a thick metal watch. Neil recognizes him as one of Eames’ forges. He smiles when Jeremy leads with how much he likes Neil’s dimples.

Jeremy also likes to talk and that's alright by Neil. Better, he’s rough and likes to talk dirty. He takes a fistful of Neil’s hair and presses his face against the stall door. Through the slit between door and wall, Neil can see men at the sink. They can likely see him. They can hear Jeremy telling Neil he's filthy.

It's humiliating. And so much better this way. 

Because Neil is filthy. He is filthy and worthless and if Jeremy’s enjoying hurting him, it's better because then at least the hurt has a fucking point.

As the thought occurs to him, Neil’s erection wilts. He squeezes his eyes closed. At least there’s a fucking point.

Once the tears start to fall, Jeremy jerks back as if burnt. “Uh,” he says tentatively, “Are you okay?”

He's still inside him. Neil laughs and this only makes him cry harder. Jeremy backs away slowly, but before he can withdraw, Neil cries out.

“No, stop. I'm fine. Keep going.”

“Did I hurt you?” Jeremy’s accent slips towards English and the dream shatters. He's aware that he can scarcely feel his body, that this is too much.

“No. I'm fine,” he grits out. “Keep going.”

“I don't know; you are crying.”

“So?”

“So, I have a hard rule against fucking people who are crying.” To his credit, Jeremy doesn't sound frustrated. Just spooked.

Neil feels like a ghost in his own body.

Jeremy backs away and Neil stares ahead. This has never happened to him before. Jeremy is one of his own projections, and he just snubbed him.

Mentally, Neil forms some harsh words for him, but these insults never leave his mouth. The stall door closes and Neil’s eyes follow suit.

He wakes up.


	6. Chapter Six

"Arthur?"

He's losing time again. He wakes up showered with a cup of coffee between his hands. When Arthur looks down into his mug, it's half full. He’s back in Kansas. It's morning and the yellow sun doesn't throb at Arthur’s temples.

Eames and Ariadne are at the kitchen table with him. He looks down to his moleskine where he's been writing notes. None of them make much sense. Under a bullet point list, he's written: "don't go in," and "angel hair/baby's breath" which he recognizes as a lyric but can't place, and then just "Eames please." He closes his book.

"Are you alright?" Ariadne asks and Arthur nods.

"He's just a little tired, I'd guess," Eames says. So he's in a good mood this morning.

Arthur would usually bristle at Eames answering questions for him, but he’s grateful for the intrusion when his head feels so distant from his body. In the space where his neck usually connects the two is infinite static, an aural haze that obstructs thought. Like tinnitus, but murkier. Everything feels and sounds strange.

“We were just talking about how we needed to go under today to…” Eames hesitates and the momentary uncertainty exposes both of them.

Ariadne finishes with, “…review the dreamscape,” but it’s too late. Arthur knows what they're thinking.

Eames’ voice is too soft. Arthur looks across the table to Ariadne’s tightly anxious face. 

“Review the dreamscape?” Arthur says and his voice is more clipped than he wants it to be. “Or assure that I won’t dissolve the next time?” 

Neither Ariadne nor Eames say anything. They don't move. Eames’ broken nose has translated into two black eyes. His gray eyes look brighter against his purplish skin. Arthur feels sick.

Their stiff posture and alert expression betray fear. Arthur’s irritability melts under the heat of their fear of him. He is in control right now. He can't resent them.

He sighs and admits, “It’s not a bad idea.” He pinches his nose, thinking while Ariadne and Eames watch on. “Fine,” he concludes, “but I’m only going under with one of you.”

Eames opens his mouth, but Ariadne speaks faster. “I’m building the dream, I should do it.”

Arthur would rather go under with Eames, but he nods. “Thank you, Ariadne. Do you have any work to do today, Eames?”

Slowly, Eames shakes his head.

“Great,” Arthur says, thinking back to his impending psychology paper, “You do now.”

—

Arthur and Ariadne leave Eames to finish Arthur’s essay and delve into the dreamscape. When they enter the dream, Arthur is a teenager (still), but Ariadne is no longer staring at him. In fact, she’s staring at anything but him. She gazes around the blank dreamscape, mouth drawn a little tight.

“Is your dreamscape always so empty?”

In response, Arthur drops them into the middle of a busy city. The projections startle at their sudden appearance, but walk on unbothered.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Ariadne says, but she doesn’t seem upset. Arthur offers her his arm and they stroll towards a more quiet street. “Is this New York City?”

“A version of it,” Arthur admits. “My turn for a question?”

Ariadne nods, but she staring in fascination at a billboard for a Dennis Quaid movie. Arthur’s subconscious NYC is a little outdated, it seems. 

“What happened with Eames?”

Ariadne’s shoulders tense. “What happened with you?”

Arthur is regretting letting Ariadne in now. He doesn’t appreciate this alliance that Ariadne and Eames have formed to seclude him. A police car rages by so loudly that Ariadne flinches to cover her ears.

“I regressed. Wright lusts after a teenager and so I became that teenager.” Half truth.

Ariadne mulls it over, tugging on the fringes of her scarf. “Why didn’t Eames and I regr—“ but she trails off, sensing already her error.

“You haven’t met him in person,” Arthur verbalizes. Three more police cars follow the first, though their sirens aren’t as loud. “Let’s get off the street.”

They duck into a sushi bar that Arthur must be constructing at least partially from memory; he recognizes the glass bowl of live crabs at the hostess’ station. Arthur was never naturally inventive enough to generate original landscapes effortlessly. 

One of Eames’ forges seats them at the bar: a tall woman with a long, thin mouth. Arthur doubts Ariadne will recognize her. She doesn’t seem to pay her much attention either way; she’s already rolling her chopsticks between her palms to rub off the splinters.

Arthur has been told this is a very rude practice, but he rolls his own under the table quietly and slowly.

The sushi chef serves salmon sashimi before they can order. It’s Arthur’s favorite, but Ariadne doesn’t poke at it. 

“I don’t eat in dreams,” she admits when Arthur points it out. It makes sense; she was trained under the paranoid diligence to reality of Dom Cobb. Folklore warns against eating in fairy land.

“That’s fine. Leaves your mouth free to tell me what happened with Eames.”

Ariadne scowls, though there’s not much in it. “Fine. But I don’t know exactly what happened.”

“Naturally.” Arthur carefully mixes his wasabi into his soy sauce dish. It’s real wasabi, not that fluorescent green paste most restaurants serve. 

Ariadne sighs. “As he told me, Wright and Alice were talking about her grades when Chester’s name came up."

Arthur waits for a moment but becomes impatient when Ariadne fingers start to untwist the knots in her scarf's fringe. "And?"

"He lost his temper. You know how Eames is. Went off on him and, I don't know how to put it, shamed him? He shamed him about all the shit he's doing."

"To Alice?" It's not unlike Eames to feel unnaturally close to his forges. Though, Arthur thought that he wasn't connecting well with her. 

She shrugs. Ariadne doesn't have many tells anymore. When she was young and new to dreamshare, each of her thoughts was immediately recognizable on her face and in all her body language. Now, she's much more controlled. If Arthur hadn’t known her since her salad days, he might not be able to read her.

He knows she and Eames have been talking. He knows Ariadne distrusts Eames in general, but respects his opinion. It's not hard to guess she knows more than he's letting on.

If she's talking to Dom about him, she's likely talking to Eames about him, too. He should be annoyed; gossip in dreamshare leads to dire consequences. 

The wall behind Ariadne’s booth is mirrored and Arthur watches Eames’ forge pace around the restaurant. They make eye contact through the mirror and Arthur narrows his eyes at her.

“Where were you?”

“Hm?”

“When you went away. Right after the job, Arthur. Where did you go?”

“New York City,” he answers plainly and finishes the last of the sashimi.

Ariadne doesn't seem to believe him. “We were worried about you.”

“You and Eames,” Arthur confirms. 

She nods. “We thought maybe you had left. Eames. He was in this…fit. I've never seen him like that before.”

Arthur makes eye contact with the hostess again. “I wouldn't leave a job midway through.” He wrests his eyes away from Eames’ forge to level with Ariadne. She nearly flinches at his direct stare. “You should know that.”

“I do, Arthur,” she says gently. 

“Can you and Eames trust me enough to finish the job?”

“Yes, of course. We already do.”

Arthur watches her expression. Her eyes are wide and calm. She leans forward to express that she is in earnest. Even if she doesn't trust him, she thinks she does.

The waiter comes by again and when Arthur’s eyes drift up to his face, everyone in the restaurant lapses into immediate hush.

The waiter is Neil. Rope necklace and cutoff sleeves. He pops his gum and looks over to Ariadne. “Sure you don't want anything to eat, Skinny?”

Ariadne looks between Neil and Arthur, uncertainty drawing the corners of her mouth into a purse.

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, frustrated. “We don't need anything. Thank you..”

Neil shrugs and when Arthur watches him walk away, he realized the whole damn restaurant is populated by variations of Arthur. Shades of Neil that grow fainter with the projection’s age. A college-aged Arthur slouches between two teenage Neils. A child-Neil breaks open a fortune cookie and shares it with another child-Neil. When they catch Arthur staring, they shoot him synchronized winks.

Arthur grimaces. “I might be drinking too much,” he says into a shot glass of sake. It wasn't there before. He knocks it back. “I'm seeing double.”

Ariadne doesn't acknowledge his joke. She's staring at two Neils presses close in a booth, joined by the mouth. 

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Eames is fascinated by this quirk of my subconscious too.”

“This…happens to you a lot?” Ariadne surmises.

It does. Always has. Even before he started dreamshare, Neil often encountered himself in dreams. Though, the phenomenon worsened when he first met Eames.

“Eames had a bit when we were younger. He liked to forge his coworkers.” 

Arthur pauses, remembering Eames as a young forger. The first time he met Eames was in a dream, and he was forging Arthur. His forge of Arthur was so stupendously bad that it made Arthur fall into a long-lasting fit of giggles. Eames had dropped the forge and they’d laughed together.

“So he just…greeted people by forging them.” Ariadne rolls her eyes. “I'm glad he cut that out.”

“Me too. He did it with a client and I had to convince him to stop.”

“And so you’ve been seeing yourself in dreams ever since?”

“More or less. I started dreamshare too young; my subconscious was impressionable.”

Ariadne looks thoughtful. For a moment, Arthur suspects she's watching his doppelgängers make out in a booth, but she says, “You have been working together a while. I had no idea.”

“We both started around the beginning of the industry.” Arthur sighs. “He was impulsive and cocky.” He wrinkles his nose. “Still is.”

She laughs and the gum-exposing grin she’s sporting makes Arthur join along.

He’s still smiling when Ariadne asks lowly, “How mad are you at him right now?”

Arthur considers for a moment. He considers Eames’ accusatory tone when they fought. He considers _No, you're not getting out of this one. We deserve to know what's going on with you, Neil._ And he considers the wet crunch of Eames’ nose under Arthur’s heel. Then, slowly, he shakes his head.

”We’ve fought worse,” he says. “One time I shot him in the ear. You ever notice the scar? I shredded his cartilage. His whole left ear is silicone.”

Whatever Ariadne was anticipating, it wasn’t this. She snorts and doubles over laughing.

When they wake up, Eames has finished Arthur’s essay. The completed essay, cover page and all, waits paper clipped on Arthur’s pillow. Eames is nowhere to be found. 

Arthur can finally get some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a long wait for a light chapter. Thank you, reader, for sticking with it. I’ll get more up as soon as I can.


	7. Chapter Seven

Arthur has class the next day. He wakes up in a haze, more dread than consciousness. When he drifts downstairs, Eames makes a ghastly face, but hides it behind his mug. Ariadne is less subtle.

She raises her eyebrows at Eames who is staring cross-eyed into his tea. When she's unable to get his attention, she sighs. "Arthur, you cannot go today."

He's half-inclined to agree. Arthur feels slow and heavy, as if he's hyper-sensitive to gravity and it's constantly dragging him closer to the earth. He's not sure if he can even speak normally or if it'll come out slow like syrup or tar. He opens his mouth to give it a try, but Eames cuts him off.

"He can decide for himself, Ariadne. Just pour him a cup of coffee and let the man work..." Eames trails off as he gives Arthur a once over, brow raised. "Or not work. She has a point, you know."

Arthur regards Eames coolly and Eames lowers his head. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose; a cluster headache is blooming above his brow. His focus slips some and it's hard to remember what they're arguing about.

This feeling, it's like falling asleep. His thoughts are jumbled and rambling towards nonsensical places, each thought both separate in its randomness and connected by tangent. 

Ariadne touches his elbow lightly and it grounds Arthur enough to remember where he is and who. Who he is.

Class. He needs to go to class.

"If I don't go, it'll raise suspicion," he says. "And everything we've done--" _Everything I have sacrificed._ "--will be for nothing."

No one has anything to say about it. Ariadne offers to drive him to campus, but Arthur declines in favor of walking.

\--

They talk him into a shower, at least, before he leaves. Eames feigns needing something from the bathroom first and follows Arthur in. Even as Arthur turns on the shower, Eames lingers, fumbling around in the cabinet.

All that's in that cabinet is toothpaste and Ariadne's hairdryer. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"I'm fine, Eames. I'm not going to drown in here."

Eames looks dubiously towards the shower. "I don't know..."

Arthur socks him in the arm. Eames laughs and punches him back in the thigh, strangely enough. Which Arthur returns through a kick to the ankle, his sock feet barely unbalancing Eames. He steadies himself against Arthur's shoulder, still laughing.

Arthur can see their reflection in the mirror. Eames's face is nearly tucked into Arthur's neck. It's been a while since they've been like this, Arthur reflects. They've never been truly easy around each other, just as Arthur is always paranoid about his friends' intentions. But this job has become unusually tense for them. 

_No,_ Eames had said. _You're not getting out of this one. We deserve to know what's going on with you, Neil._ Had that hurt Arthur? Or was it the spiteful way Eames had framed Arthur's prior sex work? _You have experience, don't you? That's how one gets hired for a job, isn't it?_

Even now, the phrasing doesn't bother him.

"Eames?"

Eames lifts his head, the grin fading. He's waiting for Arthur to tell him to fuck off. The thought is tempting; Eames is uncharacteristically vulnerable. But it's not what Arthur wants.

"We're alright."

Eames' jaw twitches, his brow lowered uncertainly. After a long pause, he nods. "We're alright," he repeats.

\--

Arthur steps out onto the sidewalk, cracked with tree roots pressing up against the cement, and heads towards campus. The walk is short, but made long by the nonsensical neighborhood planning that winds labyrinthine around campus. Arthur is grateful for the twists and turns; it gives him time to think and soothe this growing migraine.

The houses and trees block the sun, which helps tamp down the headache. The shade feels cool against his pupils, but when he turns the corner, light explodes from the exposed horizon. He flinches back, eyes closed.

Sweet blackness.

When he opens them again, the sun has gone down and he's on the edge of campus, facing the opposite direction. Arthur finds himself midstep and he stumbles forward, shocked.

With unsteady fingers, Arthur checks his totem, feeling the familiar ridges of the poker chip and the misspelled casino name etched into the center. Not a dream. It soothes him, but not much.

Phone next. He has three missed calls from Ariadne and a text from an unknown number. All the missed calls have a recent timestamp, but the text message is at 2:30--exactly when class gets out. The area code is local, but Arthur doesn't recognize the number. When he opens a text message, there's just an address and a short note: _See you soon._

Arthur braces himself and enters the address into his GPS. It's only 15 minutes away from campus, but Arthur shouldn't go there alone.

He does anyway. Arthur takes an Uber to the address. Ariadne calls him three times on the way there, so he turns off his phone.

\--

It's a warehouse on the outskirts of town, surrounded by a dog food factory and not much else. It's a large facility, but there's no indication what type of warehouse it is. The front of the building has a door and nothing else. The Uber driver peels away, kicking up dust around him. Strange, he was expecting a house. The hairs on the backs of his neck rise so high they feel like needles. The headache mounts rapidly, disjointing his thoughts again. Arthur stands before the warehouse a long moment, not entirely certain that he's in perfect reality right now. Slowly, he decides to round the warehouse, looking for cars or a vantage point before he goes in

Too late, he hears the rapid crunch of gravel behind him. And then a needle, a real needle, stings into Arthur's neck.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Too late, Arthur jerks his elbow behind him, sinking bone into someone's fleshy abdomen. A man's fleshy abdomen, guessing by the low grunt. Too late, he jerks back again, but his limbs feel distant. Then, everything feels distant. Then, he's unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think I’m capable of writing an Inception fic without Arthur, at some point, getting kidnapped.


	8. Chapter Eight

After Arthur leaves, Eames lingers around his bedroom door. He has nothing to do, but wait. Downstairs, Ariadne is pacing in the kitchen. Eames can hear her footsteps.

He doesn’t blame her for her nerves; Eames hasn’t slept since they entered Wright’s dream.

This isn’t like Arthur. Eames has never seen him unravel like this on a job. Not even when they were in Singapore, attached to car batteries by the skin between their toes.

When their abductors had questioned Arthur, he laughed and very calmly told them where they could stick what.

Eames retreats to his room where he rests on his bed with a drawing pad. He sketches the anxious lines around Arthur’s mouth and the dark shadows gnawing under his cheekbones. Every detail of Arthur these past few weeks that Eames can recall, he transmits to the page. When he’s finished, he’s disturbed by the sketch. Rips it out, and begins again. 

This time with the Arthur he remembers during the first few weeks of the Wright job. He sketches a soft, tired smile. Still fond for Eames. There was a point where Arthur even seemed affectionate.

Eames flinches. He fucked up that one, didn’t he?

He flips the drawing over and begins again. When Arthur was young, he had overgrown hair long enough to curl at the ends.

It was lovely, but Eames wouldn’t have known this detail if it weren’t for Arthur’s recent tendency to manifest as an adolescent in dreams.

He starts another drawing, tentatively, of Arthur as a young boy. He can imagine a soft, round face. Maybe even a smile.

Eames shivers, suddenly remembering. There was that box under the bed in Wright’s dream. Arthur’s lockbox full of Polaroid pictures. Arthur had just been a child in those photographs. Eames had seen them all, and seen them each time he closed his eyes.

He has seen Arthur in this bad of shape, but only once and it wasn’t on a job. Last year, they had decided to linger after a taxing job for a week long romp in bed. On the last day, they had gotten fabulously drunk and passed out. When Eames had woken up, Arthur’s head was tucked in Eames’ lap, mouth around his cock.

The sex had been good, but afterward, Arthur didn’t respond to his name. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling, face impassive and blank.

At the time, Eames has chalked it up to exhaustion after truly impressive lovemaking. Now, he’s not so sure. The strange manic drive toward sex. The blank expression. They seem too familiar now.

His pencil stills over Arthur’s eyelashes, uncomfortable as he remembers the picture of Arthur covered in cereal. Sugar caught in the child’s eyelashes.

Neil’s eyelashes, he should amend. Though, it’s impossible to use Neil for Eames’ mental depiction of him. Arthur is Arthur. The shape of him, the calluses on his palms, and the clipped speech patterns. His perfectly vertical posture and carefully planned diary. The moleskines with Arthur’s blocky architect’s handwriting.The tendency to organize and the nearly robotic composure. These are the parts that make up Arthur.

And these are the parts that have been missing lately.

Eames considers calling Arthur and begging him to come home. Skip class, skip the job, skip town with Eames. He doesn’t trust Wright in the same vicinity as Arthur. Perhaps he’d feel more comfortable if Arthur had his wits about him, if Arthur were more himself. Eames’ hand twitches towards the phone, but he falters.

No. No, he can’t betray to Arthur any lapse in confidence. It’s not fair to him, as a friend, as a colleague, as a...

He rips out the drawings and, on a whim, slips them under Arthur’s door. Then he goes downstairs to wait for Arthur to get home.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic depictions of violence. Buckle up, broncos.

Arthur wakes up cold, but all at once alert. He is aware of five things simultaneously:  
1\. He is in the warehouse,  
2\. lying on a hard table  
3\. with his wrists and ankles bound to the aforementioned hard table,  
4\. his shirt removed, and  
5\. he is _fucking angry_ about it.

Arthur rolls his head slowly, looking around the room and taking inventory. Wright has put him in the main storage room of the warehouse, so he has a few exit options. The front door is directly behind his head. Then there's the large, garage-style door to his right, but Arthur suspects he'd need to press a button or pull a lever to open it. There is another door a few yards behind Arthur's feet. 

On the table next to this door, there is a hammer. That's useful.

He rolls his line of vision to left and locates his jacket and shirt folded on a chair. Wright left them within arm's reach.

(Of course, not in Arthur's currently limited arm's reach, but he'll get there.)

There's a razor sewn into the sleeve of the jacket. Arthur is bound by nylon rope--the fetish stuff that is easy to cut through.

All these factors together, plus the certainty that it was Wright that brought him here, leads Arthur to a 90 percent certainty that he’ll make it out alive.

Arthur throws his head back and screams, "Wright! Wright come out here." Silence. He calls out again, face filling with blood from the strain of volume. “Wright!”

Nothing.

Good.

Arthur grips either side of the table with both hands. He rolls his body as far to the left as he can, straining against the nylon rope, and then slams it to the right. The table grinds a few torturous inches to the right. For caution’s sake, he waits a moment to see if Wright will appear. When no one comes, he tries again, this time twisting his body as it lands, pushing his shoulder harder than his hip. The table moves at an angle this time, and farther.

Each time Arthur's body hits the table, he gets closer to his things, but progress is slow and his shoulder is bruised by the time he gets to the chair.

Now, the difficult part. The seat of the chair is more than a foot below where Arthur's hand is bound to the table.

Arthur shoves his hand farther down against the knot. The rope scrapes his skin, but he pushes harder. The skin breaks and blood follows, but it slicks the rope and his hand slides down to his jacket. His bloody fist crushes the silk lining of his coat and Arthur feels relief in the sensation.

He nicks himself working the razor free. And nicks himself again, trying to saw open the ropes. Arthur can feel the nylon rope fray under the razor, the soft ends matting under the trickle of Arthur's blood.

Outside, the crunch of gravel under car tires alerts Arthur to Wright's return. Carefully, he stores the razor flat under his hip. He leaves his head tilted back so he can view the door upside-down. When Wright enters, they make immediate eye contact.

Wright looks worn, heavy circles under his eyes and sweat stains at his arm pits. He startles in surprise at Arthur's direct gaze, but approaches anyway. Stupid man.

He walks slowly, as if sensing some danger in Arthur. His voice is soft as he says, "I didn't expect you to be awake already."

Arthur has nothing to say to this. He's shifted from professional to victim very quickly and any patience he had left is shot.

Arthur has bled today. Wright has not.

He tracks Wright as he rounds the table. Wright sees the chair closer to the table than it was when he left it, the jacket crumpled on the floor. He sees Arthur's bleeding wrist and his eyes widen.

"Ches," he gasps, "what did you do?"

"I was cold," Arthur deadpans.

"You poor thing." Wright drapes the coat over Arthur's chest and shoulders. "There. Is that better?"

Arthur rolls his eyes.

Wright's expression shifts, perhaps sensing the change in Ches' demeanor.

"I understand you're probably upset, but you've left me with no choice, Ches. You understand that, right?"

Typical. "Really? And how do you figure that?"

Wright looks genuinely confused by this. "Are you..." he trails off, voice lowering, "mocking me?"

"If I am, then it’s on accident and thus your fault for making yourself such an easy target."

As Wright puzzles over this accusation, Arthur works the razor against the rope. It's slow work. The awkward angle makes the sawing movement of his hand conspicuous, so he must move slowly and distract Wright.

Easily done. Wright's ears and cheeks are red, his jaw tight and quivering.

”Something the matter, Professor Wright?”

"Something the matter?” Wright’s pitch raises to a near-hysterical octave. “You played with me. I cared about you and you were a tease. You still are a tease." Wright's eyes are wet. "We spent the night together, then you came to class and just tell me it's over?”

”Wait,” Arthur interrupts. “What did I do?” What did Neil do?

Wright’s nostrils flare. “You came to class and waited until the end, the very end, to tell me we were off.”

Well, good for Neil. Growing a spine after all.

Wright doesn’t seem to agree. “Who was I to you, Ches?"

Wright rounds the table toward Arthur's feet. It's only now that Arthur realizes he has no fucking shoes on. Wright wraps his cold fingers around Arthur's bare ankle. They are so dry that they feel like paper. The blade stills in Arthur's hand, loosening in his grip.

Arthur can feel his attention slipping, his focus replaced with a hazy resign. In some ways, it would be so easy to let go and let this happen. Worse has happened to this body, Arthur could allow worse to happen again.

But that would be Neil’s choice, not Arthur’s. He closes his eyes and inhales through his nose. He concentrates on his surroundings, on the gritty rope burn at his wrist and the razor slices in his hand. Arthur opens his eyes and resolves to hold eye contact with Wright until one of them is _dead_.

Wright thumbs Arthur's ankle bones. Arthur works the razor until he feels it fray under his fingers.

"Who were you to me?" Arthur repeats, incredulous. "The same thing I was to you: a target."

Wright's hands tighten around Arthur's ankles, but only for a moment. He animates suddenly, like a puppet whose strings have only just been plucked up. Hastily, he loosens the rope around Arthur's ankles. He guides his legs apart by the knees, thumbing the seams along the insides of Arthur's thighs. He dips his head and Arthur can see his nostrils flare as he inhales.

Arthur scoffs. "Are you _smelling_ me?"

"Young men have a smell."

Arthur grimaces and works harder against the rope. Almost there. "Uh huh. And when do they lose that smell?"

Wright's nose wrinkles under his wireframe glasses. His hands have travelled up Arthur's zipper where he thumbs open the button of his pants. He tucks his hand into Arthur’s pants, feeling him with a broad palm. Arthur’s attention slips, Neil’s legs spread wider, letting him for a moment.

"You’ll lose that smell Sophomore year of college,” Wright says and Arthur’s skin crawls.

Arthur’s skin. Arthur’s. Not Neil’s. Not the name given to him by someone else, but the name he gave himself. The name and the life he carved for himself.

“Oh, Ches. You'll lose it next year when --"

"I'm currently in my thirties."

Wright pauses, surprised. Arthur takes the opportunity. He tucks his knees back and kicks Wright in the chest with both feet. Hard.

When Wright stumbles back from the blow, Arthur breaks open the rope and crawls off the end. His wrist is still tied on the left, so he seizes the table in both hands and drives it against Wright's stomach like a battering ram. As the wooden legs of the table scream against the concrete, Wright grapples wildly for footing, but can't find it.

The table slams Wright against the concrete wall. Out of spite, Arthur pulls it back just to ram him again. Wright takes the edges of the table and pushes against it, but panic has seized him, and he no longer has control over the situation.

Arthur does.

"You know what really gets me, _professor_?" Arthur asks and drives the table into Wright again. Blood trickles from his mouth, dribbling over his lower lip like a baby spitting up. "You still don't know who I am. Do you?"

Wright doesn't respond, so Arthur leans into the table, squeezing him against the wall. Wright shakes his head and Arthur eases the pressure. In near relief, Wright sags against the surface.

Arthur rounds the table slowly, taking the hammer he spotted before. He has his cellphone in his back pocket. Arthur turns it on and gives Eames a call. 

Eames answers on the first ring. "Where are you?" His voice is soft with relief. "We'll come get you. We'll come get you right now."

Arthur gives him the address while he casually swings the hammer. It’s got a good heft to it, for a simple claw hammer. It’s metal except for the yellow rubber grip. "Thank you. Now hang up. I'll call you back and you let it go to voicemail."

No questions, Eames does as told. Arthur has never loved him more.

When the phone reaches Eames' voicemail, Arthur holds it in front of Wright's face and asks:

"Does the name 'Alice' ring a bell?"

Wright lights up like Christmas, but it's tinged with that same note of panic.

"She wanted it."

Arthur swings the hammer into his temple. Wright cries out in pain.

"Did you coerce her?"

"No."

Arthur swings again. Wright’s glasses break and hang off one ear.

"Did you force her?"

"No! God, please--"

"God doesn't care about you." He reels back the hammer just to see Wright flinch. "And I believe He hates liars, so let's not waste time. Did you rape Alice?"

When Wright doesn't respond immediately, Arthur wrenches back the table and Wright drops to the floor like a sack of dead meat. Arthur grips Wright by the jaw and lifts him. His thumb and fingers dig into the thick ridge of his mandible, right below his gums.

He doesn't need to speak. Wright confesses.

"Yes."

"And she wasn't the first."

"No."

Arthur sighs and drops him, nodding. He takes a step back, considering this man. His mark for the past few months. His mark and Alice’s abuser.

"Wright, I haven't slept so well since we met. You know why?"

Wright shakes his head.

"In chronological order," Arthur says, "Brian, Daniel, Trevor, Alice, and then...me."

Wright knows now that he's going to die. He starts blubbering. "I deleted all my pornographic accounts. You can check my computer. I won't do it again. Any of it."

"You deleted those a week ago, Wright. You kidnapped me yesterday."

"I'm sorry."

"Now you are."

Arthur doesn't just hit him with the hammer. He drives the hammer into him, over and over again. Until his eyeball splits open like a grape. Until his skull caves in and his jaw pops off. Only when he can hear the hammer hit concrete through Wright's head does Arthur stop. 

He ends the voicemail and call log tells him the call only lasted 10 minutes. Next, he sends off a text asking Eames to bring gasoline. Ten minutes later, he gets a call from Eames.

"Got your message, darling. I could bring hydrofluoric acid to dissolve the body. If you like."

"That and gasoline, then. Is Ariadne with you?"

There's silence on Eames' end for a moment, then he says in his overly patient tone. "Would you like her to be?"

"Come alone. Unless she's already there with you."

“Just me, pet.” Eames sighs, light and relieved. "Are you alright?"

Arthur considers Wright's caved-in skull. "Yes. Much better."


	10. Chapter Ten: Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking finally, right? 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with it, thanks for commenting, and thanks for seeing me through this cathartic revenge-fantasy. It's been good for me. I hope it's been good for you.

* * *

**Six Months Later**  

* * *

 

Elderberry Lane is quiet after the sun goes down. The street is residential, mostly made up of old, but well-kept one-story houses. The kind of houses that stay in the family for generations. Though it’s Friday night, Elderberry is far enough from the central hub of Sacramento that only a few couples can be found on the sidewalks, meandering their ways home after date-night.

The facts: Leon Cranshaw lives on this street. He is a bartender. His shift begins in 25 minutes. From here, it is a 15-minute walk to the strip-mall bar where Cranshaw works.

In short, he’s cutting it close tonight.

The facts: Arthur waits with a pair of binoculars in the passenger seat of a white Toyota Corolla.  He’s been here for the past two hours, waiting. In those two hours, Eames has called Arthur’s burner cell 14 times. He shouldn’t know this number. He _doesn't_ know this number.

Arthur hasn’t picked up once. His eyes never leave Cranshaw’s front door.

(The facts aren’t always accurate. A louder couple stumbles into their townhome. They look just like Wendy and her husband.)

Arthur forces himself to keep his attention on the blue front door of that grubby little house. Cranshaw’s grubby little house. There is an ill-kept garden overrun by weeds. He allows himself to look at it occasionally, imagining how he would landscape it. Some bougainvillea, maybe. They’re hardy flowers that do well in the California heat…and Eames loves them.

Arthur had a potted bougainvillea in his Cusco apartment when they lived off-grid in Peru for a few years. Eames liked to pinch the papery, pink blossoms, threatening to pluck them off. Even though Arthur never so much as flinched, Eames knew the threat made him nervous.

He never pulled a single petal.

Now, Arthur’s burner cell rings with a call. On bad instinct, Arthur glances away from the front door, down to the caller ID. Eames, of course. Knowing his mistake halfway through making it, Arthur returns to his surveillance on Cranshaw. Just as the front door opens and a long, lean man emerges.

Cranshaw is a man so skinny that his head seems like it might topple right off his body. He's a man so tall, the crown of his head nearly brushes the door frame. Just looking at him, Arthur gets a flash of what it would be like to have this long, skinny man looming over him. What it would be like to see his long, yellow teeth clench in a smile.

He’s the best thing Arthur has seen all day. Smiling, Arthur watches Cranshaw head towards work from his side view mirror. Once he’s out of sight, Arthur waits an additional half an hour so that he will enter the house just as Cranshaw’s shift begins. 

The facts: Cranshaw is actually an idiot.

Sure, he has two deadbolts on his front door and a Doberman Pinscher named Possom, but the side door that leads to his kitchen has only one handle lock, and Possom cares more about the ground beef that Arthur brought him than Arthur himself. Arthur could break into this house in his sleep.

Ignoring the kitchen, Arthur heads straight to the basement door. Getting in there is harder: four dead bolts and three padlocks. But it’s only incrementally harder: Arthur simply unscrews the door hinges. Problem solved.

The facts: First, the smell. Arthur has to tuck his nose into his collar even before he descends the stairs. Even then, the smell of human filth lingers in his throat.

Second, what he finds. He knew what to expect, so doesn’t flinch at the three chain-link dog kennels in Cranshaw’s basement. Two of the cages are empty, their doors flung open and mattresses bare. But the third has a girl in it. A young girl. Arthur recognizes her on sight.

Her name is Estefany Montoya. She’s 19 and has been missing for the past five years. When she breathes, Arthur can see her spine bulge against her skin as if it might burst out. He sighs in relief; she’s alive.

With one hand under the nape of her neck, Arthur turns Montoya onto her back. She doesn’t even startle. Her eyes glance over Arthur’s face, landing listlessly on the wall. Arthur feels his heart compress and his lung squeeze out any air left. For a moment, he’s totally empty.

Montoya’s sudden, rasping inhale reminds Arthur's lungs to inhale, too.

“¿Quién te trajo aquí?” Arthur asks in bad Spanish. “ _Who brought you here?_ ”

Montoya winces, thinking. Her whole face is swollen. Talking, even, must be painful. “Se llaman Leon y Chris.”

Arthur nods. Christopher Kingsley was already on Arthur’s suspect list.

"Por favor," she says, pinching his sleeve. “ _Can you help me?_ ”

Arthur takes his Glock from its holster. Aims it.

“I am,” he says. And shoots himself in the head.

 

* * *

 

Eames is awoken at 4AM by a google alert. Three months ago, Eames expanded his alert list to include several of Arthur’s aliases including: Neil McCormick, Arthur McCormick, Chester McCormick, Neil McBride, Arthur McBride, etc.

The hit is on Arthur McBride. It’s the first hit Eames has ever gotten on this name. So, even though Eames feels as if his entire body has dry mouth, he brings the bright screen of his phone to his face and looks into the IP address.

When he hunts down the associated address, Eames rips out of bed and packs his bag. He books a flight to Peru on his way to the airport.

He lands in Cusco after a two-hour layover in Panama City and a connection in Lima. The drive from the airport through the cobbled streets of Cusco makes Eames’ heart feel overfull, swollen with something he can’t get out of his blood. Nostalgia, maybe.

They lived here. They lived here together and it wasn't until now that Eames realizes he's always thought of Cusco as _their_ city. Eames passes the corner where he and Arthur got into a drunken fight walking home from the disco. He passes the pharmacy where he bought Arthur floss to suture his own gunshot wound. He passes the shop next door where he bought a bottle of Inka Cola, Arthur’s guilty pleasure, to make up for Eames accidentally shooting him.

Those were good days.

Eames squeezes out of the cab, pays the cabbie a ridiculous amount of 20 soles, and stares up at Arthur’s two floor apartment. Eames lived here for nearly two years and hasn’t returned in five.

The door knocker is still hollow and houses the spare key just as it should, but Eames knows something is wrong before he opens the door. He can smell bacon grease…and Arthur doesn’t eat pig.

Eames opens the door with his gun drawn at the hip, fully expecting COBOL agents cooking in Arthur’s kitchen while Arthur sits bleeding out on a counter stool.

He needn’t have worried.

“Cobb?” Eames says, lowering his gun. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Cobb deadpans and turns the bacon onto a plate of eggs. “Breakfast?”

The question isn’t for Eames. Cobb’s pre-teen son (James, was it?) is slouched at the kitchen table, wearing a set of headphones. He’s so engrossed with an iPad that he doesn’t look up, just nods and thanks his father. 

Eames raises an eyebrow at the sight of him. “Family vacation?”

Cobb sighs. “Eames, we should talk.”

“Take Your Son to Work Day?” Eames continues.

Cobb flinches. 

“Aha,” Eames nods, glad to have fished out the answer. He fixes his sights on James. His television show or video game or whatever blares through his headphones, so Eames pitches his voice louder. “Gonna take after your dad, Jim? Is international crime the right kind of crime for you?”

“Eames,” Cobb warns, his volume rising. “Please…”

Eames isn’t having it.

“What the _hell_  are you doing in our…in _this_ apartment, Cobb?” Eames snaps. He’s loud enough to surprise James into looking up from his tablet. He’s grown to look like his father, the poor sap.

“I was actually looking for you. I thought this was your apartment, but when you weren’t here…”

“…you had to lure me here.” The google alert on Arthur’s alias. Eames tucks his face into his palm. “What do you want? I’m not forging much these days and I wouldn’t forge for you even if you--”

“I’m not extracting,” Cobb interrupts. “I’m not even working right now. After this, we trek to Machu Picchu.”

Cobb gestures to two hulking trail packs leaning next to the door. It’s then that Eames absorbs their hiking boots and cargo shorts. Cobb’s knees are both knobby and pudgy beneath the khaki. Eames groans.

“You’re going off the grid. What did you do?”

Cobb stares at Eames.

“Oh, Christ,” Eames says, delighted, “What did _Arthur_  do?”

Cobb glances over to James, no doubt deciding on some sort of parental gamble. He pours two cups of coffee and takes a seat at the counter. Eames joins him, leaning in so Cobb can lower his voice.

“After your team finished…whatever shamble of a job that perverted professor extraction was…Arthur came to help me clean up my own mess.”

“Seems like his specialty,” Eames agrees, fond.

“After that, I owed him a favor. He’d caught wind of…” Cobb lowers his voice even more, glancing back at his son. “Eames, Arthur uncovered an underground sex trafficking ring. In Missouri. He wanted to extract a member to expose who else was involved.

“We extracted three names from the mark, and Arthur killed the man before I was even out of the dream. The next three were dead by the time I found the first body.”

Eames whistles, deeply in love. “You two must be wanted by every pervert in the Midwest.”

“And elsewhere," Cobb agrees, "I lost track of him in New Mexico.”

Eames has to sit back a moment and let himself be amazed by Arthur. By the great, gory, gorgeous fact of him.

“So,” Eames says when he’s done. “That sends us to…Cusco?” 

“I tracked his airline purchases.”

“Good idea. Piss him off. Wanna put a nanny cam in his bedroom while you’re here? Bug his bath? Resort his spices? Put milk in the freezer?”

“He’s a hard man to please. What can you do?” Cobb shrugs, letting Eames’ comment roll of his back. “He booked a flight to Lima three days ago.”

Eames laughs. “International vigilantism looks good on our Arthur, doesn’t it?”

Cobb rolls his eyes, too serious to appreciate Arthur in full. “Depends on who’s looking at him.”

Eames doesn't have anything to say to that.

Cobb stands and considers his son. “James and I had better get going or we’ll miss our train.”

“Wait.” Eames steps between Cobb and his route to his luggage. “Why am I here?”

Cobb stares like Eames is stupid. Maybe Eames _is_ stupid. “Don’t you _want_ to be here?”

Eames considers this for a long moment.

“What do you know,” he finally says, “I guess I do.”

 

* * *

  

Arthur finds Christopher Kingsley hiding out in Cusco.                                                                                                            

Kingsley is staying in a Best Western hotel in the main hub of the city. His room is on the second floor and overlooks an indoor courtyard. Perhaps thinking himself safe from other hotel guests, Kingsley has left the thick drapes open, so his room is only obscured by gauzy transparent curtains.

The facts: Kingsley checks his lock often, flicking it back and forth anxiously as his eyes dart to the windows. Perhaps, as he locks himself in, he is looking for Arthur in the dim lamplight.

The facts: Kingsley reads a book with a glass of red wine. Arthur can’t see the title, but Kingsley makes more progress on the wine than in the book. Next, Kingsley brushes and flosses his teeth. He checks the lock again. Checks the lock again. Checks the lock again. And then, finally, he goes to bed.

In the dark and quiet, Arthur comes for Kingsley.

When he stands at the foot of the bed, looking the man down, an unusual unease settles over him. This man is terribly normal. Without the basement sex dungeon, without the polaroids of women stashed under the bed, without evidence of his crime, it’s easy to imagine Kingsley is just an old man. Innocent. Normal, even. 

He’s sleeping face down, his cheek smashed against the pillow so his lips pucker like a child’s while he snores.

For a moment, Arthur wants to wake him. He imagines asking him, "Why the fuck did you do it? What inside you made you do it? Why did you do it to little kids like..."

_...like me?_

But that isn’t Arthur talking. It’s a low, flat Kansas drawl asking these questions.

He remembers finding Estefany Montoya in Cranshaw’s basement, the _real_ Montoya, the _real_ basement. She, too, was asleep on her stomach when he found her. But she was too drugged to remember her name when Arthur dialed 911 and pressed the phone to her ear. He had to remind her her name.

Kingsley did that to her. Cranshaw did that to her. And Arthur didn’t need to know why Cranshaw did what he did to strangle him in his sleep.

The facts: Kingsley is the last person on Arthur’s list. After this, he can rest.

 

* * *

 

When Eames and Arthur first moved in together, it was by accident. They had finished a dreamshare job gone awry and needed a place to hide out. Ever practical, Arthur had suggested that they split up and claimed South America for himself. Arthur bought a flat in Peru and told Eames to have a nice life.

Ever taking the piss out of Arthur, Eames had hunkered down on the border of Brazil - just to the west of where Arthur was hiding. He had planned to eventually lure Arthur to the border and rub their proximity in his face when things had blown over. 

Instead, he blew his cover while gambling, drunk on Cuba Libres. Only three weeks after going into hiding, he came running to Arthur with his tail tucked between his legs. When he begged for asylum, Arthur didn't hesitate to let him in.

Eames had always conceptualized Arthur as a cold pragmatist. In those days, Arthur was still a wraith of a man seldom seen without his hood up and shoulders hunched. He scowled constantly. His tongue was sharp.

Looking back on it, Arthur was closer to Neil in those days. Looking back on it, Arthur wasn't as cold as Eames perceived him to be. After all, he took Eames into his home.

The first night Eames stayed with Arthur, Arthur demanded that he sleep on the couch. Eames protested, first citing that they had shared a bed before and then noting Arthur's guest bedroom upstairs. Still, Arthur demanded Eames stay on the couch. Still, Arthur wouldn't allow him upstairs. When Eames finally succumbed to Arthur's iron will, and Arthur snuck upstairs to bed, he heard Arthur deadbolt his door. Then, the low creaking grind of a chair being lodged under the doorknob.

At the time, Eames thought Arthur was just being petty - making a show of his distrust of Eames.

Looking back on it, Arthur was closer to Neil in those days. Looking back on it, perhaps Arthur truly distrusted Eames. Perhaps he was scared.

 

* * *

 

Arthur takes his belt off slowly. It’s black leather, the silver buckle engraved with the initials ERD. Eames’ belt, stolen six months ago. Arthur isn't sure Eames is even aware he took it.

He pins Kingsley to the bed. Shoves a knee into his back between his shoulder blades and wraps the belt around his throat. In a panic, Kingsley startles awake and struggles. He battles against Arthur’s knee to breathe, but Arthur leans into him. He palms Kingsley's skull and shoves him face first into the pillow, hard enough to suffocate. In his other hand, he holds both ends of the belt - he holds Kingsley's air.

 “Scream," he says, "And I’ll make you suffer."

 Kingsley whimpers. Chokes against the leather. “Please,” he begs, muffled into the pillow.

 Arthur tightens his grip. There’s a lot he’d like to say to him. Say to Cranshaw. Say to Professor Wright.

 Say to Coach.

 He doesn’t say any of it. Instead, Kingsley dies in the silence.

 

* * *

 

Arthur hasn’t slept in days, though he isn’t losing time like he did before. His body is full of sand, his skin too thin to hold the weight.

But, still, he doesn’t feel tired. He feels drunk, maybe. High. Somehow intoxicated _and_  sated. Post-coitus without the orgasm. It’s a good, rare feeling, enough to carry the load of his exhausted limbs home.

When he slumps back to his Cusco apartment, Arthur is in a dull haze. He didn’t navigate himself home, so much as rely on the memory in his body to guide him up the winding cobblestone paths, to take him home.

In the apartment, he smells toast and, for a minute, sincerely believes he’s having a stroke. But then he finds the large, brown loafers tucked considerately beside the door, the oversized corduroy jacket less thoughtfully tossed over the coffee table, and the book on pop-psychology beside the jacket.

The toaster springs up two slices of sourdough bread. Arthur butters both and folds one slice into his mouth as he slicks jam over the next.

Alerted by the noise, Eames’ bare feet come down the stairs. Eames’ body follows them and he yelps upon seeing Arthur in the kitchen. A cup of tea shatters on the hardwood floor. Much swearing follows as Eames leaps away from the spilled tea and shattered porcelain.

Arthur laughs, spraying breadcrumbs, but stoops with a dish towel to help.

“Scared the fuck out of me,” Eames says.

“You’re lucky your clothes are uniquely tacky," Arthur deadpans, "Otherwise I wouldn’t have known it was you trespassing on my property. I would have shot you in the knee.” He looks over Eames. They meet eyes. “Why are you here?”

Eames seems to consider answering the question, but thinks better of it. “That was quick,” Eames comments instead. “Six men dead in six months. That has to be a record for you.”

Cobb is such a goddamn squealer, it makes Arthur reconsider _eating pig_.

In a huff, Arthur stands, sharp porcelain cradled in the cup of his hand. But righting himself from a hunch so quickly rushes the blood to his head and he wobbles. Nearly tips over if it weren’t for…

“Whoops,” Eames murmurs, scooping him up by the elbows. “In and out again are we?”

“Not quite,” Arthur says. “I’m still me.”

_I'm not Neil._

Eames guides him to the couch and Arthur overturns the shards onto the coffee table. The broken teacup has a floral pattern, definitely not Arthur’s. Did Eames bring his own cup? Was it left over from when Eames lived here before?

“I’m still me,” Arthur repeats. “Still Arthur.”

He lies down on the couch and flings an arm over his eyes. The french tuck of his shirt unfolds and tightens over his belly as he stretches.

“Mm, thank God for small favors.”

Arthur snorts and opens one eye. Eames is staring down at him.

"What?"

"That's my belt." Eames gestures to the buckle, but doesn't touch.

Arthur closes his eyes again, resting a hand over his belly. Over his belt. He pats it. "Mine now. Good luck retrieving it from me."

"Consider it a gift, then."

Eames voice is the low Tennessee Honey pitch that works like witchcraft on Arthur. He allows Eames to lift his feet and reposition them on his broad lap. He allows Eames to unlace his shoes and take them off. He even allows Eames to lay a hand over his ankle and stroke the bone with his thumb. He likes it, even.

“So," Arthur sighs, drowsy at last. "You’re really not going to admit why you’re here?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

Arthur thinks this over. They've had many lifetimes together.

Eames’ thumb is now just under the hem of his trousers, finding his skin. Wright’s hands were there just months ago, but that touch is only muscle memory now. Eames’ touch isn’t requesting anything of Arthur. He doesn’t wander any higher than his ankles, only aiming to soothe.

Soon, Arthur will fall asleep and then, when he wakes up, maybe this whole thing will be over. Maybe Chester and Neil will stay asleep when Arthur wakes up. Maybe he’ll wake up, and his muscles will have no memory of anyone but Eames. No memory of anyone but himself.

Maybe he’ll wake up, and he’ll be ready to be a new person. Still Arthur, but new.

Eames will be here, though.

No matter who Arthur is.


End file.
